


The Rape

by terma_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-01
Updated: 2000-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: Krycek finds a way to take what he wants.
Relationships: Alex Krycek/Fox Mulder
Collections: TER/MA





	The Rape

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> This started life as a dark little pwp. It grew. I think the title says it all. Although there is minimal blood and guts, this isn't a happy story.

  
**The Rape  
by moco**

  
"Take off your clothes." 

Mulder heard the words. Knew, of course, what they meant. He could even picture himself doing it, but his limbs wouldn't move. He felt far away. There was a roaring in his ears, and he thought he might pass out. Saliva filled his mouth. He moved suddenly, bolting for the bathroom, heaving convulsively until his stomach emptied, and he tasted bile. 

He hung there for a moment, arms braced on cold porcelain, head hanging down. 

"The really great thing about all this, Mulder, is that it won't ever get any easier. Ever." There was no inflection in the husky voice, no smirking or smugness, only certainty. 

"I..." He tried to say, _I can't_ , but of course he could. Had to. If he didn't, Walter Skinner would die an agonizing, pointless death. 

The nightmare had started a mere two hours before when he exited his car in the garage of the Hoover building. He'd not made it to the elevators before feeling the hardness of a gun in his back. 

"Go up to Skinner's office," a hated voice had whispered. "When you've seen him, call this number." A leather-gloved hand slipped a matchbook into his coat pocket. 

"Krycek, you scum-sucking son-of-a-bitch..." 

"Skinner really doesn't have time for your games," the betrayer said, nudging Mulder toward the elevators. The doors opened before Mulder could say anything more. He turned and watched the thug with the gun until they closed again. 

Torn between calling security to give chase and checking on Skinner, concern won out. He hurried to the AD's office, glad it was too early for Kim to get in his way. He tore open Skinner's door, calling out "Sir? Are you okay? Sir!" 

He found the AD on the floor of his bathroom, pulsating blue veins prominent over his face and hands. 

"Oh shit!" He flipped open his phone as he knelt. "Don't worry, sir. I'll get you some help," 

Mulder had barely punched in the first digit of 911 when Skinner's hand reached out to stop him. "No," the man rasped. "Nothing...to do...leave..." The hand flopped back, weakness overtaking him. 

"Fuck," Mulder breathed, canceling the call. He took a deep breath, pulled Krycek's matchbook out of his pocket and punched in the number written there. 

"Like what you see, Mulder?" said the hated voice out of the phone. 

"Make it stop!" 

"Okay." 

Mulder kept his eyes on Skinner as the pulsating gradually slowed and the veins disappeared. The AD sighed once before sinking into exhausted unconsciousness. 

"You can keep him healthy," Krycek whispered into his ear. 

"What do you want?" Mulder asked rising, glaring around the room, looking for an enemy. 

"Be my whore, Mulder." 

"Are you insane?" Mulder yelled. A moan from Skinner shifted his attention. The pulsing veins were reappearing. "Nooo! Stop it, Krycek!" The pulsing got stronger. Skinner writhed on the floor, pain evident on every part of him. 

"Be my whore." 

"I'll kill you!" Spittle dotted the phone and ricocheted back on his chin. 

"Then he dies." 

"No," Mulder whispered. 

"Yes," whispered back. "Watch, Mulder." The veins pulsed in a horridly hypnotic rhythm. 

"Make it stop." He was pleading now. 

"You make it stop." 

_Be my whore._ The words seemed to echo in Mulder's head, reverberating into infinity. He'd hear them forever, he thought, watching Walter Skinner writhing in agony on the bathroom floor. 

Mulder knelt again, one hand clutching the phone to his ear, as if trying to mold it there, the other stroked the side of Skinner's bald head, the veins alive beneath his fingers. 

"Yes," he whispered into the phone, dying a little. Mulder felt the pulsating under his fingers slow and gradually stop. 

"Your place. Now. Tell Scully you're sick." 

"Skinner?" Mulder asked, smoothing the lines on the AD's forehead. 

"He'll be fine in a few." At Mulder's skeptical silence, he added, "Trust me. If he dies, I won't have you." 

That truth hung in the air long after Krycek broke the connection. Mulder continued to stroke his boss's head, mind refusing to function, until Skinner began to stir. Mulder forced himself up, made his legs hold him, knowing instinctively that Skinner mustn't find him there. Any hint of Mulder's impending _sacrifice_ would destroy the big man as surely as Krycek's nanites. 

Convincing Scully of his illness was a slam-dunk. "My God, Mulder," she exclaimed, hand on his forehead, checking for fever with that eons old feminine gesture that had nothing to do with her medical training. "You're positively green. Food poisoning, do you think?" 

Mulder felt his mouth form a wan smile. "Teach me to let Frohike cook," he said. 

He escaped her solicitous care with a list of instructions and a promise to call if things got worse. "Not possible," he murmured on his way out of the office. 

And now here he was, facing a nightmare he'd never even conceived of before. 

Mulder rinsed the bile from his mouth and splashed cold water on his face before straightening to face his tormentor. 

"Take off your clothes." 

Krycek's face was expressionless, implacable. There'd be no mercy found there, no quarter. 

"Why?" he asked, almost pleading. 

_That_ got a smile. "Because I want to. And because you hate me. And because I can." 

A non-answer, really, but the only one Mulder knew he'd get. He walked past Krycek out of the bathroom, into his little-used bedroom and began to disrobe. His eyes unfocused, and his brain began to disconnect. 

"Uh uh," said Krycek, slapping him lightly. "Look at me. There's no point if you're not _here_." 

Mulder met his eyes then and discovered that hell was green. 

Standing naked in front of Alex Krycek was the single worst thing he'd ever done. Allowing this angel-faced demon to touch him, run his long-fingered hands up and down his torso, letting him pinch his nipples hard and fondle his testicles was something Mulder would never forgive himself for. Death would be better. 

The demon, it seemed, was a mind reader. "Kill yourself, Mulder, and I'll offer this same deal to Scully." 

Adrenaline surged at that, rage and fear all balled together like a writhing nest of serpents. 

"You," Mulder began, his brain clicking on a fact that didn't matter and having to say something lest he run screaming into the darkest recesses of the insanity that bubbled all too close to the surface, "you have two hands." 

He was answered by an angelic smile, obscenely bright, like sunshine on a charnel pit. "Magic, Fox. Alien magic. Ain't it grand?" 

"You sold your soul for this." A certainty, Mulder felt, and a half- hearted insult. 

"Oh, I sold much more than that. My soul. Your soul; Skinner's. Scully's if you're not careful." Krycek's two hands reached around to cup his ass, kneading and separating, pushing Mulder's flaccid cock into his hard, denim covered one, chafing him with his movement. 

Passivity was not in Mulder's nature, and everything in him screamed to fight. Without thought, his hands wrapped around Krycek's throat. "Killing you can only make things better," he said squeezing. 

A sharp knee to the groin broke his hold and a hard uppercut to his chin stunned him. 

"Wrong," rasped Krycek, left hand tangled in Mulder's hair, shaking his head and holding him upright. "I'm the only one who wants Skinner alive. The only one who wants Scully out of it. And all I have to do is break you." His voice got louder, and he shook Mulder's head for emphasis. "It's not good enough to control you anymore, Mulder. They want you broken, not brought to heel. Broken! You'll be mindlessly obedient before I'm done, but they'll be safe. Well," he gave Mulder's head a final shake, "as safe as possible." 

He pulled Mulder toward the bed, pushing him down. "On your back, Mulder. Knees up and hold 'em. This is just the first of many, many humiliations. Once I turn you out on the street, you'll be praying for my tender mercies. And this," he placed his right hand on Mulder's balls, kneading them harshly before slipping his first two fingers through the cleft to rest against Mulder's anus. "This will be a safe haven." 

He teased the entrance, pushing Mulder's knees wider. "Don't move," he instructed, moving off the bed. Mulder listened to clothes drop. There was a tearing sound, and then he was back. "Ever been raped before?" asked the devil, touching him with cold lube. A gentle finger entered him, paused and went hunting, locating his prostate. Rape wasn't enough, it seemed. Krycek massaged that hard little gland until Mulder was erect and leaking. Only then did he withdraw his finger and replace it with his cock. 

"Feel me, Mulder," Krycek said between clenched teeth. "That's my penis up your ass, and it's my alien-grown hand that's going to make you come." He started pumping then, giving Mulder little time to adjust, his left hand keeping rhythm on Mulder's shamefully hard shaft. Mulder tried to keep himself from climaxing, concentrating on the hateful cock up his ass, but biology and Krycek's skill won out. He came with a cry of despair followed immediately by a grunt of satisfaction from his rapist. 

Krycek pulled out carefully but grimaced at the mess on the condom. "I'll have to remember to give you an enema first," he said, peeling the condom off gingerly. "It'll be cleaner and you'll be more comfortable. And the added humiliation will be nice, too." 

Mulder straightened his legs, but otherwise lay still, an arm over his eyes. He heard Krycek dressing, vague sounds of clothes on clothes. The bed dipped, and he felt warm breath on his face. 

"I knew you'd be lovely," said the hated voice. "Hot and tight." A wet tongue lapped up the side of his face, and he shuddered in revulsion. Krycek moved away saying, "You'll probably want to take the rest of the day off, but I expect you back at work tomorrow. Don't want Dana to worry." 

He stifled a groan at the sound of Scully's name on Krycek's lips. It seemed so horribly intimate, but he didn't want to give the outlaw any more ammunition. 

The monster left, and Mulder lay still for a long time after his front door closed, trying not to think of anything. 

Bathroom necessities forced him to move eventually, and then it was imperative he shower. And shower. He vacated the bathroom once he'd run through the building's hot water, surprised to find it was still daylight. A glance at his clock showed that it was barely noon. Unbelievable. He'd gone to hell and it was only lunchtime. 

Mulder didn't need Krycek's instructions to get him to work the next day. His apartment had become unbearable. He saw Alex Krycek in every shadow and dust bunny. Leaving it, however, was worse. Never agoraphobic before, he now felt as if everyone was looking at him, like everybody knew he'd taken it up the ass for Alex Krycek. He counted on his basement being a refuge. 

He hadn't figured on how hard it would be to look at people. Scully told him "good morning," and he couldn't decide how to respond, couldn't remember what his _normal_ greeting was. He didn't know what expression to put on his face or how it should feel. 

He screamed when she touched the back of his neck to ask him if he wanted a latte and could only shrug off her concern by claiming residual illness. She didn't believe him, he could see that, and he cringed inside, thinking of her _knowing_. 

Their afternoon meeting in Skinner's office was worse. Mulder both couldn't look at the AD and couldn't not look. Skinner's eyes on him made him blush. He wondered how much the man remembered. To Mulder, Skinner seemed fragile, but he didn't trust his own perceptions. Did the AD look at him differently? Did he know the deal Mulder had made to save his life? 

Mulder stumbled through the report he'd written just two days before, suffering Scully's raised eyebrow and smooth _save_. She took over the explanation as if they'd rehearsed it that way, drawing Skinner's attention away from Mulder and giving him time to compose himself. He managed to give the conclusion himself by focusing on a spot right behind the AD's left ear. 

"Mulder?" Scully began when they were back down in the office. 

He merely shook his head and wouldn't look at her, keeping himself buried in files until she left for the day. Mulder stayed there all night, taking comfort in the absurd and the outrageous. He left for home at dawn, showered, changed and fed his fish. He was back at his desk before Scully. 

She said nothing when she came in, merely looked at his haggard, sleep-deprived face. She _tsked_ once then left, returning shortly with a plastic cup filled with granola-topped yogurt and a tall latte. He began to protest but stopped at her raised eyebrow. It was a compromise she silently offered: she wouldn't ask, but he _would_ eat, so he accepted, nodding his thanks. 

That defined the rest of his week. He slept when his body gave out, usually at his desk, and ate what Scully set in front of him. He avoided his apartment except to bathe and change, scurrying through the parking garage at odd times of the day. He spent the weekend lost in the tedium of piecing together the burnt remnants of his lost X- files. 

More than a week of no monsters, and he could almost convince himself that nothing had happened, that it was all some too-real nightmare brought on by concern for his boss and an overactive imagination. 

Two words whispered from his cell phone brought reality crashing back. "Come home," it said, late one night. He stared at his office walls, at the shattered illusion of safety, and thought of death. Then he thought of Scully, sighed once and disconnected. He didn't doubt for one moment that Krycek would do what he threatened. 

He arrived home to find his apartment lit by hundreds of candles, their scents a cloying mixture of flowers and spice. Krycek was lounging on his couch, reading. He greeted Mulder with a casual wave of a hand, saying, "Go clean yourself out, and wait for me on the bed." 

Mulder wasn't used to nightmares that made him angry, but this one engendered a rage so all encompassing it made him shake. He'd have to kill this man, he would, or explode. 

Krycek must have sensed his agitation. He looked up, shook his head and tsked. "Will you require a demonstration _every_ time, Mulder? I'm not sure Skinner's heart could stand that." 

His words put the image of Walter Skinner writhing on his bathroom floor into Mulder's head, draining the rage, leaving him sick and spent. "Damn you," he whispered, turning for the bathroom. 

This time, Krycek took him from behind, and was less... kind.... He still used plenty of lube, careful of tearing, still spent time massaging Mulder's prostate, making him hard, still insisted on wringing a reluctant orgasm from him. But there'd be bruises on his hips and his buttocks stung from harsh slaps. 

Krycek fucked as if he were pissed, totally at odds with the candlelight. The detached part of Mulder wondered what the candles meant, why he bothered with a seduction setting for a rape. The other part, the part that was all-too present, gibbered into his pillow, pleading with his tormentor to stop, to be done. 

But the devil only laughed. 

After he came—after they both came—Krycek spooned around him, holding him gently, long after his semen cooled and grew sticky, and the candles sputtered out. 

Krycek left finally, in the dark hours of the morning, with a soft kiss on a shoulder and friendly slap on the ass, sticking his head back in the room to say, "Change the sheets, Mulder. They're getting funky." 

Mulder lay still for a long time, surrounded by the scent of dying wax and stale sex. 

Three days later, Krycek was back, and again in two days, then nothing for a week. Mulder walked around in a kind of shock, going through the motions of what he thought of as _real life_. He felt hollow though, as if once removed from anything other than the hated voice on the cell phone and its accompanying nightmare. He lost weight; by the third week, his suits hung on him while Scully's eyes got wider and more worried. 

Mulder couldn't stand the thought of her knowing. He'd rather be dead, would rather have Skinner die than have Scully know that he regularly allowed himself to be fucked by Alex Krycek. 

He tried not to imagine what she must be thinking. She never asked, just put food in front of him and silently stood at his shoulder until he ate it. They spoke only of current cases, nothing of conspiracies or invasions or government cover-ups, and absolutely nothing personal. 

Krycek was waiting in his car one evening, rode silently to the apartment and didn't leave for almost ten days. By the eighth, Mulder was so sore he could barely walk and Scully developed a permanent worry line between her eyes. 

He couldn't help the flinch and yell when Krycek began to non-too-gently finger him open. Frowning, the assassin rolled him over and crouched between his legs, pulling Mulder's cheeks open to inspect his hole. 

"Damn," said the monster. "That's gotta hurt." He circled a finger lightly around the redness. "Why didn't you say something?" 

Mulder craned around to stare at his tormentor, incredulous. "Please don't rape me anymore," he said with a sarcastic spark of the old Mulder, "it hurts." 

Krycek snorted a laugh. "Point taken," he replied, rolling off to the side. "We'll just have to think of something else to do." He nudged Mulder over onto his back, then draped himself on the agent, bringing their cocks into contact. He grasped them both in his alien hand, milking them to a climax. 

Mulder's traitorous body had become conditioned to its new master, obediently standing erect at the first sign of the creature who owned it. 

Krycek was quite amused. He seemed to derive as much pleasure from bringing Mulder off as he did in getting off himself. "The humiliation," he commented after one shattering orgasm, "never ends." 

Mulder almost cried when Skinner loaned him to a Violent Crimes investigation up in Oregon. Almost two weeks engrossed with another type of monster put some weight back on him. If it weren't for the fact of people dying, Mulder would have been tempted to drag the investigation on longer. Although finding the proof took time, the solve itself was ridiculously easy. 

"You lived up to your name, Spooky," the SAC told him. "Damn fine job." 

Mulder felt like shit. He'd been happy, _happy_ that people and their pets were being strangled in the Pacific Northwest, just because it kept him out of harm's way for a time. 

So engulfing was his guilt that he faced the trip home with sick excitement and greeted Krycek with a kind of fatalistic joy. "I deserve you," he said to his monster. "It's only fitting." 

Krycek slapped him, hard. "No one deserves me," he said with barely contained fury. "Not Skinner, and certainly not you." He hit Mulder again when the agent opened his mouth to argue. 

Krycek shoved him into the bedroom. "Put these on," he said, indicating a pair of worn, torn jeans and a thin white t-shirt. "I need some pocket change. Let's see how much you'll go for." 

Mulder actually felt the blood drain from his face. He saw sparks in his narrowing vision and swayed. Another sharp blow across his cheekbone brought him back to himself. Krycek was right. He didn't deserve this. The hollow detached feeling was back, settling over him like a cloak. 

  
Krycek pulled him into a raucous smoke-filled biker bar. He ordered himself a draw and stood sipping it while Mulder merely stared at the floor and wished himself dead. 

A beer and a half later, they were approached by a large bearded man in greasy leathers wearing an eye patch. 

"You two queers?" Patch asked belligerently. 

"Why?" countered Krycek. "You in the market?" 

Patch took his measure and decided against violence. "So what's he do?" he indicated Mulder with a tilt of his bearded chin. 

"He doesn't _do_ anything." Krycek tipped his head back and downed the last bit of his beer. "He will, however, allow you to _do_ anything you'd like." 

"What about you?" 

Krycek smirked at the once over. "I watch." 

"He seems kind of skinny," Patch said reaching out to feel Mulder's ribs. Krycek intercepted the hand with one of his own. 

"You pay for that privilege." The two locked stares. Patch backed down. 

Mulder stood where he had since they first walked in, eyes down, staring at nothing. His ears burned and his jaw ached from clenching it shut, to keep from begging Krycek not to do this, to take him back home and keep him to himself. 

He shuddered that he'd sunk so low. Isn't this what Krycek said would happen? 

The biker and the monster dickered over price, Krycek refusing to take part of it in drugs, coming finally to an agreement. He slapped Mulder lightly, just to get his attention, and pointed him toward the back door. "It just never ends, does it, baby?" the monster cooed. 

Mulder's mouth was too dry to voice a reply. He could barely even walk. 

The alley was cold and smelled of piss and vomit. Appropriate. They'd barely cleared the door when Patch shoved Mulder up against a trash bin. "Sweet ass," he commented, sticking his hand through one of the strategically placed tears in Mulder's jeans. "Slutty mouth, too. Don't know which one I want to fuck first." Fingers from his other hand went around into Mulder's mouth. 

Mulder made a distressed sound. Patch laughed at that, spinning him around and shoving him to his knees. The biker unzipped and pulled his cock out, stroking himself erect. "Open wide, now, Slutty Mouth. Wanna see how much of me you can take." 

The smell coming off the big man gagged him, even before the filthy, uncut penis was forced between his lips. He tried to avoid it, but his head was back against the trash bin, and there was no place to go. 

"Come on, boy, don't be skittish now." He pinched Mulder's nose, cutting off his air and making his mouth open. One hard hump and Mulder was airless again, his throat filled with a hard, dirty organ. 

Patch pulled out suddenly, falling backward onto the pavement with a surprised shout. Mulder gagged, falling onto his hands, heaving, the nauseating taste making him puke. He saw Patch twitch, and realized that Alex Krycek was savagely kicking the now unconscious biker. 

The monster's face was contorted with rage. He wouldn't stop, Mulder knew, until the biker was dead. 

"Krycek!" Mulder yelled, struggling to his feet. "Stop it!" He grabbed at the thug's arm and got a fist in his face, landing once again in the dank alley. The rage was turned on him now. 

"You can't kill him, Alex! I can't... do this... to save one man and let you kill another!" The rage slowly drained from Krycek's face. He tossed his hair back out of his eyes, running a hand through it. 

"Isn't this interesting," Alex commented in a calm voice, holding a hand out for Mulder. "It seems that I'm unable to let anyone else touch you." He contemplated the groaning biker. "Let's go." 

Back in the car, the monster's mood was quiet, which suited Mulder just fine. He spent the ride home bent over with his head in his lap, not even bothering with a seat belt. 

The first thing he did when they got back was to brush his teeth. When there were no orders from his keeper, he climbed into the shower, too, dropping the rentboy costume into a careless heap by the toilet. He no longer tried to scrub the nightmare away, but the warmth was soothing and it felt good to be clean. 

It occurred to him when he walked out of the bathroom that he'd become as comfortable naked in front of Krycek as if he were alone. "This is not right," he murmured, ashamed of himself. 

"No shit, Sherlock," drawled Krycek, following him into the bedroom. "You've fucked this up royally, Mulder." 

"I've fucked this up?" Mulder turned to him incredulously. " _I_ don't have any power in this... situation." 

He backed up as Krycek strode angrily toward him, stopping only when he ran into his chest 'o' drawers. "Oh, Mulder," Krycek said backhanding him. "You've got _all_ the power." He slapped him again, and Mulder tasted blood. 

He looked into glittering green eyes and saw that the rage from the alley was back, and again it was directed at him. Back and forth, Krycek rocked his head from side to side with sharp, open-handed slaps, and all he could do was try and protect himself. 

Being thrown down on the bed was a relief. With his face hurting so much, he didn't even try to deny the pleasure Krycek made him feel. Even the burning when first being entered felt fine to him, familiar and friendly. He was healed, no longer sore, and this was a safe warmth after the coldness of the alley, after the pain of Krycek's anger. A haven, just as Alex had promised. 

Mulder's monster angled his thrusts _just so_ , sending sparks of ecstasy through Mulder's joints, making even his elbows tingle. He came easily, just from the friction of his cock on the bed while Krycek kept on, still venting his anger. His mind wandered, not detaching, just... meandered. Vague questions formed. Why did Krycek claim that _he_ had the power? And what had he fucked up? 

Krycek's increased speed signaled his impending orgasm, and he cursed, damning Mulder before shouting, "Oh, fuck me," as he came. The agent wondered as Krycek collapsed on him, if he'd start hitting him again once he'd recovered from fucking him. And that sent his meandering mind off on another tangent. 

"How come," he heard himself ask, "you never fought back?" After an interrogatory grunt he added, "when I'd hit you?" 

The body on his back tensed a moment, squeezing him, before rolling off to lie at his side. "It never occurred to me to," Krycek said to the ceiling. "It just honest-to-god never crossed my mind." 

Mulder tried to digest that, thinking it was somehow important. While he pondered, Krycek left the bed. He heard water running and then kitchen noises. What was the puzzling demon doing now? The answer came in the form of a warm wet washcloth and a dishtowel filled with ice. 

"Here," Krycek said, nudging Mulder with the dishtowel. "Your face is swollen." He used the warm cloth to wipe up and around the lethargic agent. 

"Does this mean you're not going to hit me anymore?" he asked, rolling onto his back and placing the comforting ice on his aching face. 

"It's all going to hell, Mulder. Hitting you isn't going to help." Krycek zipped up his jeans, then bent to pick up his shirt. He held it in front of himself while he stared at Mulder. "I honestly thought having you would be enough." He shook his head and laughed. "What a fuckin' fool." 

Mulder watched as he finished dressing and tried not to flinch when Krycek reached toward his face. The demon slowed, showing his benign intentions. He ran his thumb lightly over the bruise before carding his fingers through Mulder's hair. 

"I like it when it's long," he said, turning to leave. 

"Why?" Mulder asked, not referring to his hair. "Why do this?" 

A sad smile answered him. "Because believe it or not, it was better than the alternative." 

Mulder lay there long after he left, until the ice melted, attempting to think like an investigator, trying to profile a man about whom he'd never had a clue. 

* * *

Dana Scully took one look at her partner's battered face and decided something had to be done. 

"I was mugged," he'd told her, unable to look at her. She'd respected his privacy, even through the weight loss and haunted eyes, but this... this obvious _abuse_ was just too much to overlook. 

After their morning ritual of granola and latte, Scully told a lie and made a beeline for Skinner's office. Kimberly wasn't at her desk, so Scully just ducked her head in the AD's inner sanctum, hoping for a few minutes of off-the-record advice from someone that she knew Mulder both trusted and respected. 

What she saw stopped her cold. Skinner was looking out his window, unaware of her presence. His usual mask of stern officiousness was gone, and he looked... frail... and old. He looked like a man staring at his own death, and she wondered if he'd found something out about the nanotechnology polluting his blood. 

Now was not the time, she decided, to bother him with her suspicions of her partner's abusive love life. 

Damn! One more thing to worry about. 

She backed quietly out of his office and headed back to the basement. What to do, what to do? 

"Mulder? Cover for me, will you? I've got somewhere to go." She grabbed her purse and was out of the office before he could ask. She had worked herself into a _state_ by the time she stood in front of the Lone Gunmen's door. Worry about the two men most central to her life warred with anger over their penchant for keeping everything inside, suffering in silence. They both needed a swift kick, and if she couldn't get to the bottom of just what the hell was going on, well, _somebody's_ head was going to roll. 

She pounded on the Gunmen's door, impatient with their scurrying paranoia. "Dammit! Open up." She pictured them huddled together, trying to decide if she were really Dana Scully or an evil construct. On the other hand, maybe they were just picking up beer bottles and underwear. "I'm armed!" she called out, warningly. 

She scowled at the door and at the eyes she knew were staring out at her until she heard the clicks of locks disengaging. 

The door opened slowly and there they stood, one behind the other: Larry, Curly and Moe. 

"Why, it's the delectable Dr. Scully," said Frohike, attempting to sound surprised, as if they hadn't been watching her. He ushered her in with a flourish. 

John Byers, standing directly behind him looking nervous, said brightly, "Agent Scully! This is... uh... serendipitous." 

She looked from one to the other, then raised her eyes to the third musketeer. 

"What the hell is going on with Mulder?" She and the longhaired Langly said at the same time. The three men looked at each other. 

"Oh, fuck!" said Scully. "This means you don't know either." She brushed past them to collapse into a worn and tilted office chair, rolling backward slightly. Elbows on knees, head in hands, she moaned. "Oh, God. He's been beaten up." 

"What?" Frohike plunked down in an equally tattered chair, rolling it in front of her. He placed tentative hands on her wrists. 

"His lip was split and swollen, and there's a big bruise on his cheekbone." She looked from Frohike to Byers to Langly. "Told me he was mugged." 

"You didn't believe him," Byers made it a statement. 

She shook her head. "This isn't the first time in the past few weeks he's been... damaged... somehow. And he's been so..." 

"Spooky?" Langly supplied. 

"Haunted." She scowled up at him until he shuffled away to fiddle with a surveillance monitor. 

"Agent Scully?" Frohike began, "would you, uh, would you like a glass of wine?" 

"It's nine o'clock in the morning!" 

"Oh, yeah, but... would you like some wine?" 

She stared at him incredulously, mouth open to tell him to get a grip and not be ridiculous. "Yes," she heard herself say. What the hell. Frohike gave her wrists a squeeze before scurrying into what passed for the Gunmen's kitchen. He came back with a small Flintstones' jelly glass filled almost to the brim with a blood-red liquid. 

Scully took the glass, looking at the wine with some trepidation. She took a tentative sip, while six eyes of varying hues stared. It was... not bad. She took a bigger sip. "This is good." 

"Told you," Frohike said, glaring at Langly. 

"Just because it tastes good doesn't mean you got a good deal," Langly told him scathingly. 

"Frohike bartered some programming, and they've been fighting about it for weeks," Byers explained, attempting to shut up his compatriots with a stern look. 

"Well, it's decent," she announced. 

"So was the programming," said Langly. 

"Fair deal then," she said with finality, ending _that_ digression. "Tell me what you know about what's going on with Mulder." She took a large sip of wine—it really was good, beat the hell out of coffee, in fact—and continued sipping while the troubled threesome shot looks and grimaces and eyebrow waggles back and forth. They came finally to some silent consensus. 

"We haven't seen him in more than two months," said Byers. 

"He won't hang with us anymore." This from Langly. 

"He stopped calling and he never asks us for anything," volunteered Frohike. 

"And he always needs something—" 

"But not lately—" 

"And he won't watch movies on the phone—" 

"Or answer his e-mail—" 

"He's never home—" 

Scully was getting dizzy from trying to keep her eyes on the speaker. 

"And we know he gets distracted when he starts to date someone—" 

"That's only natural—" 

"But it's never been like this—" 

"And it's never lasted this long—" 

"Yeah, before, he'd always eventually _talk_ about his chickadee—" 

"Not details—" 

"Or anything tacky—" 

"Just the basics of where he'd been—" 

"And why—" 

"And a little bit of who—" 

"Stop it!" From the silence, Scully realized she'd shouted. She closed her eyes briefly, sorry for a moment, but they'd made her dizzy. 

"I don't think," she hesitated, draining the glass, "that it's a _chickadee_." Holding her empty glass out to Frohike, Scully gauged their reactions. Frohike seemed embarrassed and wouldn't meet her eyes when he took the glass and rose to go back into the kitchen. Byers and Langly exchanged _looks_ , as if she'd confirmed something they'd conjectured about amongst themselves. 

Frohike came back with the bottle tucked under his arm, Scully's glass in one hand and three other cartoon-character jelly glasses held on the fingers of his other hand. He divided the wine among the four glasses. 

They sipped silently for awhile until Byers asked quietly, "Do you have any idea who it is?" 

Scully shook her head. 

"It's someone he's ashamed of," Frohike announced. 

"Because it's a guy?" Langly sounded unconvinced. 

"No, that's not Mulder." 

Scully agreed. "It's a guy and Mulder's ashamed because...?" 

"He's inappropriate," said Langly. 

"Because?" 

"Wrong race?" said Frohike. The eyes that turned on him cowed him. He shrugged. "Religion?" 

"No," from Scully. "He's inappropriate because...? 

"He... he doesn't think like Mulder. He's... not a good man?" Byers made it a question. 

The rest looked at him now. "Yes," agreed Scully. "You're right. That's it. But who?" 

"And why?" asked Langly. 

Unanswerable questions. They all drank more wine and pondered. Frohike told what he knew about Phoebe Green, how Mulder had been sucked into an unhealthy relationship at Oxford with a domineering vamp who got off on humiliating callow boys. The other two filled in their impressions, garnered from years of alcohol-induced confessions. Of how Mulder said he just wanted someone who wanted him but figured no one could, that he was unlovable. How he made compromises with lovers and how the compromises took so much out of him that he finally gave up relationships altogether, keeping his distance and paying for what he needed in the form of videos and phone sex. 

Diana Fowley had been the last of his _real_ relationships, as far as the guys knew. Scully told what she knew of a lost woman called Kristen, who'd thought she was a vampire and who'd died, because Mulder was unable to save her just as he'd been unable to save Scully herself. 

They all spoke of Samantha, the sister he'd lost, and his parents' resultant withdrawal of affection. Scully damned them, her only frame of reference her own family, whose love she was sure of, even when they disagreed with her life and her choices. 

Frohike opened a second bottle and then a third. Scully spent most of the afternoon sleeping on their couch, her head in his lap. 

It was almost five when she got back to work, hungover and depressed. Mulder was still at his desk. 

"Scully?" he asked. She glared at him, daring him to ask _anything_ after the weeks of her biting her tongue. He subsided, whatever he'd been going to ask swallowed unsaid. 

She tried to focus on the files on her desk, but her red-wine headache distracted her, and she couldn't help but think of Mulder wanting to be punished for sins that weren't his. 

The beeping of his cell phone made them both jump. He stared at it as if the stapler had begun to speak, answering it after the third ring. He didn't speak into it, merely listened for a moment. The blood drained from his face, making Scully wonder if he were going to faint. He moaned softly, standing to leave. Even through the loose draping of his dress pants, Scully saw that he had an erection. 

She rose, fighting nausea, and took Mulder by the arm. He shrugged her off. 

"Don't touch me!" he said, shocking her with his intensity. "You'll get dirty," added softly. 

"You can talk to me," she hissed, angry. 

He shook his head, reaching out to touch her hair, stopping before he actually made contact. "No," he said. He left the office quickly, without taking his briefcase or putting away the file he'd been perusing. 

* * *

Fox Mulder hated himself. He hated the fear and the sick excitement he'd begun to experience when he heard the husky, whispered voice. He caught himself praying on the way home— _please don't let anyone else touch me. Only Alex, just Alex_ —and had to pull over to the side of the road to fall out of the car, retching in the dirt. 

He had to do something. This situation was intolerable. Thinking his way out of this was not an option it seemed. Not with his traitorous body that drained the blood from his brain and shot him full of fear- induced adrenaline to make him shaky and ill. 

He made it to his apartment finally, wondering on the ride up the elevator if he'd be punished for the delay. 

The apartment was empty with Krycek spoor apparent in the disposable enema setting on his toilet. Another wave of nausea washed through him. Had he left to go find Mulder another _costume_? Was he bringing back a _client_? Big-time panic. Only the thought of Krycek's displeasure kept him upright and conscious. 

He took care of the enema, showered and then... what? No Krycek. No instructions. Afraid to leave, afraid even to dress, Mulder lay down on his bed with its freshly laundered sheets. Arm over his eyes, he succeeded in not thinking. 

His legs widened of their own volition when he heard the door open. 

"Very pretty," said his demon, making his cock twitch. "Feet flat. You know what I like." 

Mulder brought his knees up, feet flat on the bed, spreading wide. 

"Look at you," the voice mocked gently. "Didn't take long to train you at all. Not long at all." 

Mulder felt the bed dip, felt the first gentle touch on the inside of a thigh. "I'd like to think there was more to it than my skill as a trainer." There was a kiss where the touch had been. "But we both know that's a lie." 

Mulder cringed even as his cock grew, waiting for the kindness, this _tenderness_ , to be replaced with pain and humiliation. It didn't come. Krycek merely stroked him, soft petting up and down his thighs followed by dry butterfly kisses. Mulder hadn't moved, was barely breathing. He was so very hard. 

The first wet lick caught him by surprise. Wet and warm, down his thighs, across his balls and up the other thigh. Back and forth. Krycek added small nips on the third trip, light ones, not enough to mark. Nips and nibbles, and then a concentrated assault on his testicles followed by a surprise lick up his penis. 

He knew he was moaning and couldn't stop it, couldn't stop any of the noises coming out of him. The licking was both soothing and arousing. He liked it, god help him, he liked it, and he wanted more. Mulder felt like an addict who needed a fix. Alex was like the needle, a dirty, used, disease-bearing hypo. His heroin was the humiliation and shame, the _guilt_. And the burn, the rake across his prostate, the pleasure forced out of him, was the rush of the poison hitting his bloodstream. 

"Fuck me," he couldn't stop himself from saying. "Please, Alex, please fuck me. I need..." Mulder couldn't say anymore. The meaning of the words he was saying hit him. Want... no _need_ warred with shame. "Oh, god, Alex!" he wailed and wished he could cry. 

"Hush," soothed the assassin. "It'll be all right." He stopped his licking and slithered up Mulder's body to kiss him gently on the lips. He'd never kissed Mulder before, never required that degree of intimacy. Mulder's heart broke a little—he'd never been kissed like that by anyone, never so gently nor with such intensity. 

Krycek left his lips finally, kissing his way down Mulder's body, pausing briefly to lightly suck at hard, aching nipples before continuing south. 

"It'll be all right," Krycek said again, before engulfing Mulder's cock in his warm, talented mouth. 

Except for the biker, oral sex had never been demanded of him. That the devil was doing it to him was so scary he thought he'd die. 

As skillful at this as he was at everything else, Krycek kept him on the edge, never quite getting him _there_ , for a very long time. As good as it felt, it wasn't as good as a cock against his prostate. 

"Please, Alex, please," he begged again. 

"Not this time," was the whispered response. 

Mulder still hadn't taken his arm from over his eyes. He was hiding, and the only surprise was that Krycek let him. 

He forgot about wanting a cock up his ass when Krycek left off teasing and sucked him in earnest. So good and no pain. The only humiliation was what he'd brought on himself, his shameful want. It took so little to bring him to this, just the threat of another touching him, and here he was, pleading for his rapist to rape him. He was pitiful and disgusting. 

He came with that thought, so hard it hurt. 

"Good," murmured Krycek, licking his way up Mulder's body. "I like the way you taste," he said then thoroughly kissed the unseeing agent. "Do you like the way you taste?" 

Mulder shook his head twice, still hiding under the crook of his arm. He felt Krycek cover his body, draping himself over and around Mulder's chest. 

"I wonder why you allow this," murmured Krycek, idling tugging at the hair around a nipple. "What's Skinner to you that you'd do this for him? Hmm?" 

Mulder said nothing, a new sort of panic building inside him. What could he say that Krycek would believe, accept? That Walter Skinner was one of the very few people Mulder thought had the potential to be a friend? That Skinner made him feel secure, the man's unapproachable standoffishness a safe harbor of sorts. No one would understand that, he thought. It only made sense if you were Spooky Mulder. 

A painful tug on his chest hair brought his attention back to the monster covering him. "You fucking him?" Mulder removed his arm and looked at Alex Krycek for the first time that evening. The devil put his chin on Mulder's chest, his expression watchful. Mulder didn't know what to think of it. "Are you?" Krycek insisted. 

"No," seemed to be the best answer. That it was the truth would make it that much more believable. 

"Do you want to?" 

Mulder shook his head. 

"Never even thought about it?" 

"God, Alex. The man is _relentlessly_ heterosexual." 

The devil still stared at him. "Then why?" honestly puzzled. 

"You think it matters that you're torturing someone I like?" Mulder felt he should be outraged, but all he really was, was tired. "You think I would stand back and let you kill a stranger? Or someone I didn't _like_? God, Alex." He placed his arm back over his face. 

Krycek stayed silent and after a moment, Mulder felt him shift slightly, laying his cheek flat. He kept up the slight tugging of Mulder's chest hair. It soothed, and Mulder dozed. 

He awoke to the sensation of being shaken. Krycek was still draped over his chest. It took awhile, but Mulder eventually figured out that the shaking came from silent sobs. His chest felt wet. Without thought, the hand not covering his eyes went around the assassin, comforting. 

They didn't speak, and the night passed, silent and close. Later, near morning, Krycek rose to dress. Mulder felt Alex stroke the mole on his face, felt his breath and expected a kiss that never came. 

It occurred to him, after the door closed, that Krycek had never climaxed. 

Mulder sleepwalked through work for the next three days. He ate Scully's food and avoided her eyes, although he found himself more and more glancing at her, wondering what her reactions would be. He started and dismissed conversations in his head, but what could he say to her? Hey, Scully, guess what's been happening to me? Not possible. 

And not a sign from Alex. 

Friday, they headed up to Skinner's office for their regular weekly status meeting. Mulder still dreaded having to face his boss. He felt oddly guilty and ashamed. At the same time, there was a seed of resentment that just waited for Skinner to criticize something or disallow an expense or refuse to sign a 302. How dare he when Mulder doing _this_ for him. 

And then felt guilty for _those_ feelings. 

Relief was the first emotion that coursed through him when Skinner's assistant tersely told them that "something came up" and she'd call when the AD had time for them. 

"Kim was sure acting strange," Scully commented on their way back downstairs. 

"How could you tell?" asked Mulder, who always felt that Kim crossed herself whenever he left the room. 

"She's not usually that cold to _me_ ," was Scully's answer. 

"Yeah, that's true." Come to think of it, Kim hadn't been that cold to Mulder for quite some time. He stopped in the middle of unlocking their office, turned and looked at Scully. "He never called in. She doesn't know where he is. And she's worried." 

Scully made him nuts sometimes. Her hovering solicitousness, her _mothering_ , could start him to twitch. On the other hand, she'd learned to accept his leaps of logic with few questions, at least when there were no aliens, werewolves or swamp monsters involved. 

She stared at him for a beat, nodded once and said, "Let's go." 

They didn't bother with tracking accident reports or calling hospitals, knowing that Kim would have done all that, nor did they take the time to confirm their suspicions with her. There was no need. Mulder hot was never wrong. 

Halfway to Crystal City his cell phone chirped. He answered it with an abrupt "What did you do to him?" 

Krycek chuckled in his ear. "Killed him or cured him. Time will tell. You on your way?" 

"You son of a bitch! We had a deal!" Mulder was enraged, fighting hysteria. For nothing, for nothing. He'd done all this for nothing. He ignored Scully's questioning 'Mulder?', white knuckles clenching both the steering wheel and the phone. "I'll kill you, you traitorous bastard. I shoulda killed you right from the start." 

"Deal's off," Krycek husked in his ear, seductive whisper even now sending jolts of lust through Mulder's cock, making him harden, making him angry. 

"I'll kill you!" Mulder screamed, forgetting Scully, Skinner, _everything_ but his red-hot rage. 

Scully's own screams of "Mulder, slow down!" cut through the haze, making him realize that he'd floor-boarded the accelerator, sending the Taurus hurtling through the blessedly sparse mid-morning traffic. He eased up on the gas, slowing the car, breathing deep. "What did you do to him?" he asked the phone through gritted teeth. 

"Freed him, Mulder. One way or the other. Tell Scully I injected him with the nano-equivalent of white cells. Never been tested on humans, but it works on rats. Unfortunately, they've tended to gnaw off limbs while it's happening. Seems it's not a very _pleasant_ experience. Keep him hydrated and consider restraints." Mulder's phone went dead. 

"Shit!" Mulder slammed his phone down on the dash. They'd arrived at Skinner's building. 

"Mulder, what's going on? Who was that? What _deal_ were you talking about?" 

"Not now, Scully!" He maneuvered into an illegal parking space. 

"Mulder!" her voice took on a dangerous tone. Mulder ground his teeth. He really couldn't cope with his partner in her kick-ass mode. 

"Please, Scully. Skinner's ill." He exited the car and ran up the walk, not waiting for his partner, outdistancing her questions. She caught up to him at the security door where he jimmied the lock open. 

"You couldn't just ring the manager?" she asked him mildly. He recognized her 'voice of reason,' the one she used when he was being hysterical and over the edge. 

"No answer," he told her as the door opened. He did take a series of deep breaths as they waited for the elevator. He wasn't so far gone as to try and run up all 17 floors. 

On the elevator, he tried to explain. "My... source... says that Skinner's been injected with nannite white cells that will, assumably, destroy the nanotechnology that almost killed him. But... there's been no human tests done with this. He says it's worked on rats... but..." 

"But what, Mulder?" 

"The rats have... have tended to... to..." 

"To what?" Scully's voice had a slightly hysterical note to it. 

"To gnaw off limbs," he told her just as the elevator doors opened. 

"Oh, God," she breathed as they raced down the hall toward Walter Skinner's apartment. 

Krycek had kindly left the door unlocked. They found Skinner standing by his bed, swaying slightly. His shoes and dress shirt were off, pants undone. He looked all the world like a man fresh home from work, halfway to comfortable sweats or well-worn jeans. Except for the prominent veins, the visible sign of nanites at work. They seemed to dance differently this time. They didn't throb, they _shuddered_. 

"Sir?" Mulder said, stopping abruptly just inside the door. 

"My God!" added Scully, pushing him out of her way. "Sir, sit down," she said, approaching Skinner. 

"Hurts," he told her. "Don't touch." 

"Don't touch what?" she asked, hand out to grasp his arm. 

"Me," he rasped out. "Hurts. Everything hurts to touch. Bad." The swaying increased, Skinner's balance gone. He began to topple forward, slowly, like an ancient redwood, dying and vulnerable. Mulder lunged to catch him, grabbing the big man by his upper arms. 

Skinner screamed. 

Panicked, Mulder didn't know what to do. Any option would be excruciating. If he let go, Skinner would fall, but hanging on seemed to be a form of torture. In the end, they laid him on his bed, even though it meant more surface area touched and in pain. 

The shuddering veins never ceased. 

"Krycek did this," Mulder stated, more sad than angry. 

"Motherfucker," said Scully as she dialed 911. 

"Said he'd free me," whispered Skinner. "Said 'sorry' for the... discomfort." Skinner grimaced, and Mulder thought it was meant to be a smile. "I believed him." 

Mulder closed his eyes, overwhelmed for a moment. "He told me the same thing," Mulder said, wanting to comfort his boss and not knowing how. 

Skinner's mouth moved as if he was speaking, but all that came out was, "believe." 

"Yeah," Mulder said, in lieu of patting his hand. "I believed him, too." 

"You've been in contact with Alex Krycek?" Scully looked up from her examination of the AD. She seemed to be trying to take his pulse without actually touching him. 

Mulder's mouth went dry. All he could do was look at her and nod. He felt himself blushing, imagining her processing this information with his behavior of the past two months. 

"Mulder," was all she said before the paramedics arrived. It said something about the power of invoking the name of the FBI that an emergency crew arrived in less than five minutes. 

The ride to the hospital was a nightmare. Each movement, every touch, made Skinner cringe and moan. Mulder, never good at comforting, was lost and felt superfluous. Scully at least had her doctor persona. She spent the ambulance ride on the phone to pain management experts trying to find something to give Skinner that wouldn't interfere with Krycek's _white_ nanites. 

It got worse at the hospital. Mulder hovered on the sidelines getting in the way and annoying most everyone. His ringing phone came as a relief, the husky voice in his ear something to focus on. 

"If he dies," he told Krycek, "I will kill you." A frown from a passing orderly and a pointed look at a sign directing 'no cell phones' moved him from the emergency room bay where Skinner lay to a hallway leading toward the waiting room. 

"Oh, hell, Mulder," replied the villain, obviously amused. "You're gonna kill me anyway. In the meantime, keep him safe. At least long enough to see if my damned vaccine works." 

"Vaccine?" 

"Yeah, _in theory_ , an injection of these white nanites before an infection will protect a body from the controlling nanites. In theory. I don't think I left anyone to come after him, but... just in case, keep him safe." 

The phone went dead before Mulder could form another question. 

They put Skinner in a private room, finally, after hours of tests, consultations and hand wringing. In the doctors' best opinions, Krycek was right. They kept Skinner hydrated and in soft restraints. Scully brought in old flannel sheets, soft from hundreds of washings, to replace the crisp cotton hospital bedding and insisted on the room being kept extra warm, so that blankets weren't needed. 

It took three days, during which time Mulder never left his side. Scully had guards placed outside the room, but her partner didn't trust them, not enough to leave their boss alone. Skinner was conscious much of the time, unfortunately for him. He screamed when touched, then would apologize, his voice strained. Each time that happened, Mulder began a litany of threats and macabre deaths aimed at Alex Krycek. 

If Skinner died... Mulder couldn't stand the thought of Skinner dying. Not like this. He tried not to think about Krycek outside his rage. When he didn't concentrate on his anger, on Skinner's pain, he found himself listening for a low, husky voice. He'd sniff the air, remembering a spicy musk that sent adrenaline surging through his body and blood to his groin. He was ashamed, fearing that Walter Skinner would die for his weakness. His sin. 

On day three, the shuddering slowed and stopped, as did Skinner's heart. Mulder, once again, found himself in the way. It was, amazingly, just like on television, a synchronized controlled chaos. Instruments of torture and electrical current forced life back into the big man. Mulder jumped in sympathy when Skinner arched up under the paddles and began breathing again when he did, keeping rhythm with the steady beep of the heart monitor. 

He didn't know he'd been crying until Scully came up to him, stripping off her latex gloves. 

"He'll be fine now, we think," she said, wiping tears off his face. "His heartbeat's strong, and we can't detect any nano-activity. Go home and get some sleep, Mulder. You look like shit." 

"You, too, Doc." He smiled wanly and fingered a limp strand of red hair. "You could use a good wash." 

She'd been there just as long as he had, with only a few breaks. She told him she'd slept, but he knew she meant on a cot in the doctor's lounge or curled up in a chair in the lab awaiting one result or another. 

She'd worn nothing but scrubs since the first day. He was in the not- favorite jeans he kept in the always-packed weekender in the trunk of his car. They each kept clothes with the other, so he'd at least been able to provide her with comfortable shoes. 

"Go home, Mulder," she said again, pulling away. 

He shook his head. "That may be what they're waiting for." A deep sigh tore through him, borne of a weary exhaustion with roots more far reaching than a few missed nights' sleep. 

"Mulder, go home." Faint words from across the room. 

They scurried over to Skinner , one on each side of the bed. Scully checked the monitors before placing a tentative hand on his wrist. He didn't flinch. 

"How do you feel, sir?" 

"Like someone beat me with a ball bat." 

"From the inside?" This from Mulder, an idiot smile on his face. 

"Yeah," Skinner licked dry lips, "that about describes it. How... how long?" 

"Three days," Scully said softly. She smoothed the flannel sheet by his side. "I'll be right back." 

Mulder watched her walk out the door, speak to the guards and disappear around a corner. "I thought he'd killed you this time, sir." 

"Hard to kill." 

"Yeah, you're one tough bastard. I'm beginning to think you're one of those immortals. You don't carry a sword, do you?" 

"How... how did you know...?" Skinner faded for a moment, closed his eyes and took a deep, measured breath. Mulder didn't think he was talking about swords. 

"About Krycek?" Mulder supplied softly. When Skinner nodded, he said, "I made a Devil's Bargain. But it's over." 

Skinner's mouth moved, but no words came out. Mulder leaned in close to hear, "...know better." 

Mulder made a wry face and shrugged in agreement. "At the time, though..." 

A chuckle made Skinner cough, just in time for Scully's rescue with a cup of cracked ice. "Here, Sir. This will help." She held a spoonful of ice chips up to him. He nodded his thanks, and ate three more spoonfuls. 

"You look as bad as he does," the AD told her, speaking with slightly more volume. "Go home. Both of you." 

"Uh, Sir...," Scully started hesitantly, interrupted by an emphatic "No!" from Mulder. 

"It's been suggested your life may be in danger," Scully said. Skinner raised an ironic eyebrow. "Another kind of danger." 

"Guards," he rasped. 

"Guards can be compromised," said Mulder. 

"You two... can't... need help." 

"We'll manage," Mulder said stubbornly, even though he knew that there was a limit. They were both past the point of being either effective or efficient, but Mulder was unwilling to leave Skinner under the care of anyone without an emotional tie to the big man. He knew how far he was willing to go to protect Skinner, and he didn't doubt Scully's loyalty or dedication. Anyone else, however... 

Skinner was shaking his head. "I know people... phone..." 

The two agents looked at each other for a beat before Scully pulled out her cell phone. Skinner recited a number, which she dutifully punched in. When it began to ring, she held the phone to his ear. 

Mulder almost bounced with questions. 

Skinner said one word into the phone, "Chongo." He smiled at the reply, whispered "fuck you" before glancing up at Mulder. He nodded to the agent saying, "tell him." 

Mulder took the phone from his partner and said a tentative "hello?" 

"Who the hell are you, and what the fuck's wrong with the Skin?" boomed a male voice through Scully's cell. The speaker sounded black and large. Very large. Mulder pictured a giant, black, shaven-headed Skinner. 

He opened his mouth but was at a loss for what to say. He glanced down at Skinner who nodded again, tiredly. He took a deep breath. "I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Assistant Director Skinner has been... poisoned. He's recovering now, uh, we think, but there's a chance that the, uh, people responsible may try again, and uh..." 

"You're that X-files guy," the voice interrupted. "Skin's talked about you. You believe in aliens and government conspiracies. You know who did this to him?" 

"Uh, yeah." 

"They're connected to this conspiracy?" 

"I believe so." 

"And the FBI can't keep him safe." It was a statement. 

"I think... that's a possibility." 

"Who's there now?" 

"The Bureau's assigned guards, 24/7. And either my partner or I are here in the room." 

"The pretty doctor?" 

What the hell had Skinner told this guy? "Uh huh." 

"She takin' care of him?" 

"She's on the team, yes." 

"So ya'll both been up how long now?" 

"Too long." 

"Gotcha. Okay, tell me where and hold out two more hours. Let Skin know that the Calvary's makin' house calls again." 

Mulder began to give him the information then hesitated, "Uh, who _are_ you?" 

He was answered by a booming laugh. "The Calvary, boy! Now, what was the name of that hospital?" The man was singing "Buffalo Soldiers" in a jovial baritone when they rang off. 

Mulder handed the phone back to Scully, shrugged at her raised eyebrows and started to ask Skinner about his _friend_. But the AD was fast asleep. Mulder sighed and wearily rubbed the back of his neck. "Two hours," he told her. "He told me two hours." They settled wearily into side chairs, one facing Skinner, the other facing the door. 

One hour and forty-seven minutes later, Mulder was startled awake by a bellow from out in the hall. "Mulder! Fox Mulder!" His gun was in his hand before he remembered where he was. He looked for his partner who was crouched by the bed, weapon drawn. She had a deer-in-the- headlights look, obviously just awakened also. Skinner slept on. 

Mulder gestured to Scully, held his gun down by his side and carefully approached the door. He found a stand off in the hallway. Skinner's two assigned guards were facing off against three very... disparate individuals. 

The leader seemed to be a miniature Rambo, almost as tall as Scully, dressed in fatigues and armed for an escalating border war. Two photo negatives followed him, one black with close-cropped hair and one who looked like an Aryan Nation's poster boy. Both large. 

"Chongo?" Mulder still held the gun down by his side even though this looked like no hit squad he'd ever imagined. 

The tall black man's face split into a grin. "Hey, Fox!" Mulder recognized the booming voice. 

"We good to go now?" asked the little soldier. 

Mulder held up his left hand, pointed at Chongo. "You, with me. You others... just be cool for a little." 

Chongo grinned, large straight teeth in a large dark face. He preceded Mulder into Skinner's room, stopping when he saw Scully with her gun pointed unwaveringly at his chest. He craned his head back to tell Mulder, "She is a hotty. And tough. Skin's got a good one here." 

"Glad you approve," Mulder drawled. "Can you wake him, Scully? See if he recognizes this... gentleman." 

"Sir, sir," Scully shook the AD slightly. When Chongo approached the bed, Mulder cocked his gun, the sound a warning. 

"We don't know you," he said softly. 

The black man turned toward the agent, looking him up and down. "You'll do, too," he said. 

"Always said they were good," whispered Skinner, groggily awake. 

"You're a sorry lookin' sonuvabitch, Skin. Takes someone shovin' you through Death's door before you call for help?" 

The AD answered with a smile-turned-grimace. "Know what they say... about old dogs. You're not alone?" 

"Oh, hell no. The boys are playin' 'blink' with the suits in the hall." 

"Mulder, go get 'em before they break somebody." Skinner shifted, trying to get comfortable. He suffered Scully's pillow plumping with more patience than Mulder would've given him credit for. He even smiled a thank you at her. Very unSkinner-like. 

Mentally shaking his head, Mulder headed back out to the hall to round up Skinner's cavalry. 

"And I thought your gunmen were scary," Scully told him when he came back. 

"I heard that," growled the AD. 

Mulder thought he'd probably regret calling her attention to him, as she faced his growl, frowned and said, "Sir? Must I remind you that two hours ago you were _dead_? And as grateful as we are to these gentlemen—" she made eye contact with all three of them. Chongo's grin just got wider, while Shorty looked abashed and the blond grabbed his chest as if he'd been shot. "—for their protection of you, if they in any way endanger your health, there will be repercussions." 

Skinner frowned at her, but before he could attempt any kind of tirade she continued. "You _will_ rest. You will _not_ play macho games with the _boys_. You will listen to your body and give it what it needs, and right now it needs rest." 

Amazing what outrage can do, Mulder thought as Skinner sat up abruptly to read her his own riot act. "Agent Scully," he began in his best AD voice, but then his eyes got wide, his already wan face paled even more and he... swooned, falling back down with a soft "thud." 

"Uh huh," Scully said, vindicated. She once again gave each of Skinner's friends a _look_. "Do you understand?" she asked them. 

"Yes'm," drawled Chongo. 

"Yes, ma'am!" said the little soldier, almost snapping to attention. 

The tall blond merely nodded. Mulder had to smile at Scully's raised eyebrow. She seemed to want unanimous "ma'aming." 

"That's Goat," said Chongo. "He doesn't say much." 

"Why's he called 'Goat'?" asked Mulder. 

Chongo exchange looks with the soldier, then looked at Goat who merely shrugged. "We don't remember," he said. "He's just always been 'Goat.'" 

"And this one is?" asked Scully, indicating the third man with her chin. 

"Hawk," said the soldier. 

"Henry," said Chongo at the same time. 

"Henry Hawk?" asked Mulder. "Like the cartoon?" 

"Yep," said Chongo. 

"Fuck," added Hawk, obviously disgusted. Goat just smiled. 

"So, you know the AD from Viet Nam?" Mulder ventured, still not totally convinced about the wisdom of leaving Skinner. 

"Not in-country," replied Chongo, no longer the jokester. "We met... after... we've all, uh, _helped_ each other, at one time or another." 

"Saved each other," Hawk corrected. Goat nodded in agreement. "At one time or another," the little man echoed, "we each almost self- destructed and were hauled back from the brink, kicking and screaming." 

"All except for Skin," added Chongo. "Damn fool's never asked for help before." 

"Sounds like our boss," Scully said, running a tired hand through her limp hair. Chongo took her by the elbow and led her to a chair. Seeing her obvious exhaustion brought Mulder's own crashing down on him. 

"Here's the drill." Mulder began to tell them about the _players_ in this drama, pacing the room as much to keep awake as for emphasis. Scully added the hospital's schedule, names of doctors and nurses along with descriptions. She delineated what was normal routine and what should raise red flags. 

Skinner roused in time to see them off, shooing them away with assurances of his friends' loyalty, competency and intrepidity. 

Mulder was seeing double by the time he entered his apartment, so tired he _ached_. Even through the haze of exhaustion he found himself looking for Alex sign, but there was none. Not sure how he felt about that, he undressed, letting his clothes lie where they landed. He considered a shower, was still considering it when he fell asleep, not even aware he was on his bed. 

He awoke 12 hours later with his heart pounding, his cock hard and the scent of Alex Krycek in his nose. It was a dream, just a dream that woke him up. No one was here, nothing threatened him. The scent was only a memory, his erection nothing unusual after a long sleep. 

He felt hungover and still in need of rest. The shower did nothing but wash off the dirt and old sweat. It would take a lot more than soap and hot water to make him clean. 

Skinner's crisis had kept his mind off Krycek for the most part. Now, that's all he could think of. _Whys_ plagued him. Why did he manipulate Mulder into this situation? Why was he in turn so _kind_ and so angry? Why did it infuriate him when another touched Mulder, when it was Krycek who'd made that happen? Why had he cured Skinner? Why, why, why... 

And most of all, why did Mulder care? Krycek had no hold on him any longer. Skinner was safe, and so was Mulder. The nightmare was over. 

He felt achingly empty. 

Sighing, Mulder suited up and headed back to the hospital. 

He was just about to turn into Skinner's room when he heard Hawk say, "So, it really was a giant, blood-sucking worm?" 

"Yeah, can you fuckin' believe it? Writes it in the damned report, too. Straight-faced as hell." It was Skinner's voice but not sounding like Mulder had ever heard it before. Mulder paused, listening. "Thing is, he's right more times than he's wrong. Makes him damn near unsupervisable." 

A bark of laughter that probably came from Chongo. "Whatever you do, he sure thinks highly of you." 

"I growl," the AD growled. "But Mulder, Mulder's a good man. Honorable. 'S got nothing to do with me." His voice lowered and took on a conspiratorial tone. "Know what I'd like to do to him? 'Specially after he's gone and run headlong into some mess? Pull him over my knee and go at his backside with my belt, _that's_ what I'd like to do. That thought's what gets me through some of those budget meetings where I have to explain why an agent of mine needed rescuing from the middle of the Bermuda Triangle. Or Antarctica. Or..." 

Mulder decided it was time to end the course of _that_ conversation. He entered the room and found himself facing three grim-faced men holding three large guns. 

"Hey!" Skinner called out, frowning. "How come I don't get a gun?" The three guns disappeared. 

Chongo shook his head indulgently. "Hey, Mulder! Skin was just talkin' about you." 

"That's right," Skinner said with great good humor. "Told 'em how you made me want to blister your butt with my belt." 

"Sir!" Mulder couldn't believe the AD would actually say that to him. 

"You're going to have to stand in line, sir," came Dana Scully's voice from behind him, and the guns were back. "If anyone's going to beat Mulder's ass, it's going to be me. So, you'll just have to take a number." 

"Dana!" Skinner sounded delighted. "Are you here to give me a bath?" 

"Sir?" She turned to Mulder, nonplused. Chongo was grinning and the other two seemed hard put not to laugh. 

"A bath. I've been here for _days_ , and nobody's given me a bath. Well, except for that orderly, but he wasn't any fun." When Skinner pouted and batted his eyes, his three friends lost any pretense at composure, roaring their laughter. Mulder shrugged, clueless. 

Scully perused the chart hanging from the end of the bed. "I see you had a few muscle cramps last night," she said, amused. 

"Seized me up just like a pretzel," he told her. "Hurt bad." 

She put on a sympathetic face. "But it doesn't hurt now, does it?" 

"Nope. Feels good." He beamed. 

"I should think so." Mulder _looked_ a question at her. "Muscle relaxants," she explained. "I don't think our AD is very used to medication." 

"That's a fact," supplied Chongo. "He's been known to inhale, but he ain't never swallowed." 

Scully started to ask a question then stopped, as if thinking better of it. "I don't want to know," she said. 

"What happened to the guards?" Mulder asked. He'd been distracted by the overheard spanking comments, but there'd been no one standing outside the room. 

"They got 'called away,'" said Hawk. "Funny thing. Happened a couple hours after you two left." 

"Damn! Has anything else happened? Anything suspicious?" 

"Heard the nurse tell someone they couldn't smoke in the hospital," said Chongo. "But when I went out to see who it was, they were gone." He shrugged. "We've stayed pretty... uh... visible." 

"Rowdy," said Skinner, rejoining the conversation. "They've been downright rowdy. Flirting with nurses. Shameful. You gonna give me a bath, Scully?" 

"If I did, it'd be cold," she said. 

"Oooh, hard woman. Mulder...? 

"No!" Seeing this side of the AD was disconcerting. He wondered if Skinner would remember any of this. 

Skinner's commandos seemed to be enjoying themselves and the show Skinner was putting on. "We've got it handled," Hawk told them. 

Chongo added, "Plus we got us some old boys scattered hither and yon..." 

"Hither and yon." Skinner echoed. 

"Lots of us owe Skin," Hawk said. 

The silent Goat nodded in agreement. "Lots," he said, surprising everyone. 

Mulder left Scully holding court at the hospital and fending off Skinner's friendly advances. He stopped into the office for a few hours, reading through memos and answering the few phone messages that had been left for them. He was still too tired for any complex analysis, and finally gave it up, checking with the hospital before he left. 

Skinner was sleeping, according to Chongo, as was Goat and, he assumed, Scully, whom they'd sent home to get more rest. He was letting Hawk skunk him at Cribbage. Thus far, _the boys_ reported that they'd stopped two parking garage muggings, one purse snatching and had apprehended one individual carrying both a gun and a garrote. 

"Any number of reasons why a man packs heat," Chongo commented. "Only one reason to have a garrote." 

Oh, god. Alex carried a garrote. "What... what'd they do with him?" 

Mulder could almost hear the shrug. "I didn't ask, they didn't tell." When Mulder stayed silent, Chongo added, "You got a problem with that?" 

A deep breath. "No, no problem. Not... in these circumstances. Well, if you've got everything under control, I'm heading home, too. You've got the number?" 

"Don't worry, boy. We got it covered." 

He believed it. 

Mulder fought a creeping depression all the way back to his apartment. It confused him. He should be feeling good. Skinner was on the mend, and Krycek no longer had any hold over him. Over any of them. He might even be dead, although Mulder didn't really think that it was Krycek that Chongo's 'boys' had dealt with. Mulder's demon was even harder to kill than his AD. 

He was just tired, he told himself. With the stress and lack of sleep from the last few days added to the distress of the past months it was no wonder that he was feeling numb and empty. It was just let down, and it'd be fine as soon as he slept it off. 

He didn't get the chance. 

Mulder entered his apartment and found Alex Krycek sitting on his couch, gun in hand. 

"Fox," the assassin said in greeting. 

His instant erection shamed him, a familiar emotion and one he almost welcomed. He sighed, really too tired for this. Looking at the gun the demon held, he shook his head slightly and walked into the kitchen to begin making coffee. 

Krycek came and stood in the doorway, his question apparent by his posture. 

"Something tells me I'm going to need caffeine," Mulder said by way of explanation. 

"Make it strong," said the demon, holding the gun across his chest. "We're both going to need it." 

It was Mulder's turn to _look_ a question as he added two more scoops to the basket, poured in the water and depressed the switch. He turned and considered his nemesis. The gun added a dimension. He wondered if Alex thought it was necessary or if he brandished it as balm to Mulder's self-esteem. Mulder wondered if it _was_ necessary. 

"Skinner okay?" Krycek asked suddenly, startling Mulder. 

The agent nodded. "Scully thinks he'll be fine. There's some problem with muscle cramping, so they've got him on some major drugs. He's pretty stoned." 

"Oh yeah?" Krycek looked interested. 

"Yeah. Keeps asking Scully to give him a sponge bath." 

A bark of laughter. "That's a healthy fantasy, although I'm surprised he didn't want you for a slaveboy or something." 

Mulder felt his face burn. Krycek smiled delightedly. "Do tell." 

"He told everyone that he wanted to _spank_ me. With his belt." 

Krycek threw his head back and _howled_. "Oh, god, Mulder," he said when he could speak. "Who doesn't?" He chuckled some more, gradually sobering. "Go pack a few days' clothes, Mulder. Casual. You won't need any suits." 

"Why should I go anywhere with you, Krycek?" The question was mostly rhetorical, said more for effect than anything else. Alex answered it anyway. 

"Because you're curious. And because you want closure. And because if you don't, I'll shoot you in the knee and drag you." 

They stared at one another for a long beat. Mulder didn't really think that Alex would shoot him, even in the knee. But the rat bastard was right: he was curious and he did want an end—a real end, not just a stopping—to this episode of his life. He nodded once and walked past Krycek, heading into his bedroom. 

He got stuck on the way to the closet staring at the bed, hit with the strongest desire to disrobe and lie down, awaiting his rapist. He was so hard he hurt. 

"Need some help?" asked a breathy voice at his back. Krycek's right hand snaked around his body to cup his groin. Mulder couldn't help but buck into the pleasure of that hand. 

"What you've done to me," he said, leaning back onto Krycek's sturdy chest. 

Alex rewarded him with a kiss to the neck while he undid Mulder's trousers and carefully eased out the rampant erection. He stroked it firmly, biting Mulder's neck to make him moan. "So hot. Such a slut. I love you needing me like this." He increased his tempo, bringing Mulder to the brink in no time at all, pulling him over. 

I am a slut, Mulder thought as he came, crying out. Krycek's slut. "Shooting me would be kinder," he whispered, standing upright only from the strength of Alex's arms. 

"I've never been kind," Alex whispered back, nipping his earlobe and holding him tight until he'd recovered enough to stand on his own. "Get packed," he said with a final soft kiss before letting go and backing away. 

Mulder stood alone, bereft. Once again, Alex hadn't come, and Mulder felt... well, Mulder didn't know how the hell he felt. 

"We'll take your car," said Krycek, stopping before a nondescript black Nissan parked illegally behind Mulder's building. He pulled a duffel from the back seat and handed it back to Mulder. From the front he took a small cooler. He still held the gun. 

Mulder drove, following Krycek's directions, while the thug poured coffee out of a thermos into mugs. They drove for two hours before Alex directed them into the parking lot of a large mall. They parked, peed, moved their belongings to an older model BMW, then drove some more. Mulder was numb from exhaustion, jittery from caffeine and irritated at Krycek's refusal to explain. Another car change—Alex seemed to have vehicles squirreled all over the east coast—and they were heading back towards DC. 

They exited off the interstate and traveled side roads for what seemed like forever. "Maybe Scully's right," Mulder said suddenly, breaking the silence, "and there really is a Purgatory." 

"Turn here," was Krycek's reply. He indicated a budget motel nestled between a truck stop and a square Quonset hut advertising, "Girls! Live!" 

"Our love nest?" Mulder asked after he parked, right before Krycek grabbed his right wrist and cuffed it to the steering wheel. 

"Don't get your panties in a wad," Krycek told him. "I'm just going to get a room." He exited the car, leaving Mulder to swear and struggle. 

  
The room was surprisingly nice, as cheap motel rooms go. It was the farthest unit from the manager. Neighbors were not an issue during this mid-week off-season. A queen-size bed sat equidistant between the door and an unexpectedly clean bathroom. A decent-sized color TV was chained to the top of a dresser. The drapes matched the unspotted bedspread, and a round table with two captain's chairs completed the furnishings. 

Mulder dropped his bag just inside the door and headed for the bathroom, ignoring both Krycek and his gun. His vision blurred and sleep seemed like an unreachable luxury. 

"Sit here," Krycek directed when he came out of the bathroom. Alex had pulled a chair from the table, facing it toward the bed. 

"I'm really too tired for show and tell," Mulder told him. "Can't we just sleep?" 

"'Miles to go,'" Krycek quoted. 

"Crap," said Mulder. 

Krycek put his bag on the bed, unzipped it and pulled out a roll of silver duct tape. "I want you to just sit there, Mulder. If you can't, I'll tape you to the chair." 

Mulder felt his mouth drop open. No one had ever threatened to tape him before. "What happened to shooting me in the knee?" he asked when he was able. 

"That's a last resort." He regarded Mulder for a moment, shaking his head. "I can't do it." 

"Do what?" 

"Trust you to sit still." He took a stepped toward Mulder. 

"Hey, wait! What if I promise?" 

Krycek stopped and cocked his head. "Do you?" 

Mulder opened his eyes wide and tried to look guileless. A huge yawn spoiled the effect. 

Krycek barked a short laugh and tossed the tape back on the bed. He jabbed Mulder in the chest with an index finger. "Don't interfere," he warned. 

Next he placed the cooler up on the table next to Mulder's chair. "This is more of the serum I gave Skinner," he said opening it up and taking out a vial. Keep it on ice until you can get it to Scully. _Don't_ run it through the FBI labs. At least not all of it. I don't know if they infected anybody else, Mulder, but just imagine if the president got infected. Judges. CEOs. If this stuff can, in fact, be used as a vaccine _before_ infection, it could make all the difference. You've seen what the cure is like." 

"Is the nano-technology alien?" Mulder asked, the question helping him focus. 

"I don't know. Probably." Alex shrugged and reached back into the cooler, pulling out a disposable syringe. 

Mulder's heart lurched. Vaccine or not, he did _not_ want that stuff in him. Alex reached out a hand to soothe, as if reading his mind. He ran a thumb down the side of the agent's face, traced the outline of the Mulder's lips. He touch was gentle, and Mulder was once again filled with confusion and lust. "You could have given me this in my apartment, Alex. Why are we here?" 

"I have something I have to do, and I need few days to get it done." 

"Then why am I here?" 

Alex bent down to sweetly kiss him. It felt like good-bye. "To bear witness. And, well... consider it a gift. Sort of a small payback." Mulder frowned. "For everything I did to you." With that he turned and closed the cooler, ripped open the syringe and filled it from the vial he'd kept out. He took a deep breath and smiled at Mulder. "I...," he began, then shook his head and injected himself. 

Mulder first thought that Alex was merely vaccinating himself, irritated at the high drama. He gasped when Krycek's veins began to shudder in eerie reminesance of Walter Skinner's just days before. When the assassin threw his head back and keened, Mulder lunged out of his chair, promises forgotten. Again he felt both helpless and superfluous, although this time there was no Scully to take charge medically, no scrambling EMTs to stumble over him. 

Like Skinner, Alex seemed stunned by the degree of pain. Unlike Skinner, he wasn't stoic. He keened and moaned and swayed. 

"Oh, Jesus, Krycek! You, too? When...?" He knew not to touch, but that didn't stop his hands from reaching close, wanting to... to what? Comfort him, or hurt him some more? Mulder wasn't sure. This development was... unexpected and his mind couldn't yet comprehend all the ramifications. 

Krycek tipped his head back and opened his mouth as if to scream, but nothing came out except a harsh gurgling. 

"You have to lie down. And get your clothes off." 

"Can't wait to get me naked, huh Fox?" For once, the whispery voice didn't shoot fear or lust-induced adrenaline through Mulder's limbs. Fox had heard it both smirking with power and desperate with fear. He'd never heard it like this, though, with a note of finality. There was death in the voice. 

Sweat bathed him by the time he got Alex undressed and on the bed. A small part of him wondered why he didn't enjoy Krycek's pain, but the truth of it was that it sickened him. He'd dreamed of revenge after his father's death, after Scully's abduction, after each and every nefarious deed he'd suspected Krycek of. Except his own rape. _That_ had somehow become a shared intimacy between the two of them. Personal. 

Krycek settled after the first initial shock of lying down. Skinner had said it was excruciating, the weight of his body pressed against mattress. Scully's soft flannel had seemed to help, but all Mulder could offer Krycek were harsh motel sheets and a hard, unforgiving bed. He'd pulled the bedspread back, thinking that the blanket would feel better than the sheet, and he knew from Skinner that covers of any sort, even Scully's flannel, felt like an acid burn. Skinner'd had an overly heated room—at Scully's insistence—so he hadn't suffered cold at least. Krycek had no such luxury. 

Mulder wondered what other niceties they took for granted that were out of this assassin's reach. Skinner'd had a team of doctors overlook his care. Krycek had only Mulder to bear witness to his suffering, just a man with reasons to hate him. 

This was truly a gift, then, Mulder thought, this suffering. 

Alex grew silent finally, but his eyes spoke volumes. He stared at Mulder staring at him, green eyes dark with the pain and helplessness of the truly damned. 

Mulder pulled one of the chairs from the table over towards the bed, straddled it backwards, leaning his arms on the back. He slept, not realizing he'd even laid his head in his arms, green eyes filling his senses and his dreams. 

He awoke suddenly from an anxious dream to a strange dark room lit only by the faint blinking of the distant "Vacancy" sign. After years of waking in strange motel rooms, he acclimated quickly. 

"Alex?" Mulder whispered to the dark. A soft grunt answered him as he stood and stretched. His muscle soreness told him he'd been in one position for several hours. "How you holding up?" 

"How... how long?" came a husked whisper, barely audible. 

"A few hours, four maybe." Mulder fumbled his way to the head of the bed, found and turned on a wall sconce, illuminating his tormented monster. Not so monstrous now, he thought, looking at the naked form on the bed. Alex was on his side, exposing as little of himself as possible to surface contact. 

Alex moaned. "Can't stand it," he whispered, very still. Movement, Mulder knew, was agony. "Please, Fox. Get... my gun..." 

Mulder closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

"No," he whispered back. 

Dark, wounded eyes stared at him for long moments before Krycek managed a wan smile and brief nod. 

"No," Mulder said again, understanding. Alex thought Mulder wouldn't kill him, or let him kill himself, because he wanted him to suffer. He thought wrong. 

Arched eyebrows asked the question that Alex was unable to voice. 

"You have answers I want," Mulder told him. Answers. Mulder's stock reply. It was a convenient lie that everyone—even Krycek—would believe. Even Mulder believed it for an instant. 

But the Truth, Mulder's Holy Grail, was that now, at this point in time, he didn't want a world without Alex Krycek in it. And while he didn't necessarily want to know the reason for that particular—and peculiar—feeling, he knew that in the approximately three days he had to watch his greatest enemy's journey through hell, that reason undoubtedly would become apparent. 

Then he had to ask himself if he could stand three days of watching Krycek watch him. 

"I'll be back," he told Krycek suddenly. "Do you think you could drink some soup?" 

"Soup?" Alex croaked. 

"I'm out of my league here, Alex," Mulder said. "Skinner had IVs and doctors and round-the-clock care. You've only got me." They regarded each other for a time. "I know you need liquids and nourishment." 

Alex managed a smile. "Soup," he whispered. 

The truck stop proved to be a shopper's paradise, offering for sale everything from foodstuff to fishing worms, cookware to clothing, books, music and magazines. He ordered chicken noodle soup to go and a strawberry milkshake for Alex, and a double cheeseburger with home fries and a side of slaw for himself. He'd thought he was too tired to eat until walking inside this trucker's oasis. The smell of fresh grease and frying onions overwhelmed him, making him salivate and buy. He added a six-pack of bottled water and picked out a handful of lurid paperbacks. A side trip to the ice machine completed his trip. 

Krycek's eyes were closed when Mulder got back to the room and began arranging his purchases on the table. He jumped when the raspy voice behind him said, "I didn't think you'd be back." 

"Closure," Mulder replied, bringing Styrofoam containers filled with hot soup and pink shake over to the bed. "You promised me closure." 

"And answers," Alex whispered. 

"That, too." He sat gingerly on the bed, trying to move it as little as possible. "Soup or shake?" he asked. 

Alex merely looked at him with enormous jade eyes, dark with pain. It hurt Mulder to look at those eyes, but it was less painful than watching the dancing veins. He stirred up the shake with the straw, thinning it out a bit to make it easier to drink. "It's strawberry," he tempted, holding the straw down towards Alex's lips. 

He tried hard; Mulder bore witness to his effort. Alex pursed his lips around the straw, whimpering at the touch. He sucked briefly, grimacing. From his expression, he might've been swallowing razors. After two small swallows, Alex shook his head. 

"Try the soup?" Mulder asked, switching containers. That went slightly better. The salty warmth and soft noodles seemed to hurt less than the thick coldness of the milkshake. Mulder's challenge lay in feeding it to Alex without actually touching anything. He basically poured it into Krycek's open mouth, one teaspoon at a time. He felt like a mother robin, regurgitating pale, anemic worms. 

After consuming about a third of the soup, Krycek fell into an exhausted sleep. Even the dancing veins seemed to slow. Mulder didn't know if that was good news or not. He wondered why it mattered. He watched for awhile, then sighed and rose to dispose of the uneaten food. The cheeseburger, which had seemed so appealing in the truck stop, now sat in cold splendor on the table in a puddle of congealed grease. He grimaced, sighed and sucked down the remnants of Krycek's milkshake before gathering up the uneaten food and taking it out to a dumpster across the parking lot. 

Back in the room, Mulder contemplated his options. He could call Scully and get the authorities involved, he could just leave and go home, he could put Krycek out of his misery and then go home or he could dig in and check out the cable selection. 

Cable sucked. 

He stripped down to his boxers and gingerly joined Alex, being careful not to come too close or jostle the bed. Turning on the sconce at his side of the bed, he settled in to read about murder in south Florida in one of the early Travis McGee adventures. 

Hours later, Mulder woke to Krycek's whimpers and trembling. He had a stiff neck from sleeping sitting propped up against the headboard. The paperback, which lay open on his chest, slid onto the floor. He ignored it, groaning, and walked stiffly into the bathroom. After emptying his bladder, he splashed cold water in his face. If the mirror could be believed, he looked like a war orphan, hollow eyed and desperate. 

He whispered, "Alex?" when he walked back into the room, wondering if the moans and cries were conscious. His nemesis was still on his side, his veins still shuddering in a St. Vitas dance, but massive trembling had been added to the mix. 

Skinner'd never trembled. 

"Alex?" louder now. He knelt in front of his demon. Alex's eyes were open, and his mouth moved silently. Mulder located the ice bucket, water filled but for a few soft slivers of ice. He scooped up a palmful and slipped them, one by painful one, through Alex's cracked lips. 

He obviously needed the moisture, Mulder thought, steeling himself against the cries and dark, pain-filled eyes. 

"Cold," Alex whimpered when he could speak. 

Mulder shook his head. The room felt stuffy and close to him. "You want to see if you can stand a blanket?" 

A negative movement. "You." 

"You want me to hold you?" Mulder couldn't believe he'd interpreted Krycek's request correctly. "Alex, that'd hurt," he added unnecessarily. 

"Hurts anyway." 

Another head shake. "If you can hold out until morning, I'll go find a space heater." 

"Fox, please." A single tear made its way down to the end of the demon's nose where it hung for a long moment before dropping onto the bed. 

This Alex Krycek, hurting, vulnerable and begging, should have been a dream come true. Mulder just felt horrified and not only because of Alex's suffering. The nanites themselves stirred in him an atavistic horror of things strange, something Mulder never thought he'd feel. 

How does he do that? Mulder wondered, watching another perfect tear make its way down the impish little nose. He cursed and pulled his shorts off, knowing cloth burned. He didn't want to do this. 

Mulder slowly climbed back on the bed, spooning himself behind Alex, being careful not to touch him. That wasn't good enough for Alex. He pushed himself against Mulder, screamed at the contact, then pushed some more. 

"Jesus, Alex!" Mulder's arms automatically went around the demon before his mind could stop them. Alex's screams went up an octave, but he grabbed hold before Mulder could pull back. 

"You," Alex rasped out between clenched teeth. "You're worth the pain." 

"Oh, God," Mulder groaned, clenching his own teeth against the screaming horrors he felt bubbling out of his throat from the feel of Alex's nanotechnology dancing against his skin. It was like lying in maggots, and it took all of his considerable will not to run screaming naked out of the room. 

This was unbearable, but he bore it anyway, serving his own kind of penance. 

He lay as quietly as he could, loosely holding Krycek as the monster's cries softened to whimpering murmurs of "Mulder," which almost shattered the agent's heart. 

Alex warmed slowly, and the trembling eventually ceased. They slept after a fashion, Alex slipping into unconsciousness and Mulder going into that fugue state that rested his mind but kept his body stiffly conscious and unmoving. 

Mulder rose at first light when he could no longer bear keeping still. His hips throbbed from being in one position, and his back ached. Hell, if he thought about it, his whole body hurt. He moved carefully, not wanting to jar Alex, who seemed asleep, and walked stiffly to the bathroom. 

He considered a shower, but didn't have the energy. He pissed, then splashed water on his face and avoided looking into the mirror. He didn't want to see what stared out from his eyes. 

Back in the main room, he chugged a bottle of water, watching Alex for signs of consciousness. When the sounds of his dressing didn't cause a stir, he decided to trudge to the truck stop for breakfast. Trying to eat in front of Krycek didn't seem... kind. He wasn't really hungry, but eating seemed sane, something he desperately needed. 

Krycek's eyes were open when he got back, dark with pain... and something else. 

"I got ice," Mulder said, holding up a plastic bucket, garishly printed with advertisements from the truck stop and girlie shack. Alex blinked. The expression in his wounded eyes accused. "You said to keep the vaccine iced," Mulder added, starting to get defensive. 

"I thought you'd left," Alex whispered. 

Mulder picked up the ice chest, taking it into the bathroom to drain the melted ice, giving himself an excuse to avoid Krycek's staring eyes. The rat bastard pissed him off. How dare he look so _hurt_! Mulder was the victim here. He dumped all but a glass full of the ice over the vaccine, saving the rest to feed to Alex if he could. If he felt like it. 

"I told you I'd stay," Mulder said, approaching the bed, his voice low and angry. " _I_ don't go back on my word or betray trusts." 

"Not even mine?" whispered the monster. 

"No." They locked stares for a long moment until Krycek conceded by closing his eyes. The anger drained from Mulder and left him feeling empty. "You want to try some ice?" he asked softly. 

Krycek's eyes fluttered open as he briefly shook his head. 

"Tell me when you do," Mulder told him, searching for his abandoned book and settling in for the duration. 

He finished one of the books, stretched and cracked open a second. Same author, same detective, different decade. The hero'd quit smoking and began to refer to females as "women," not "girls." Mulder preferred the dated charm of the earlier mysteries. When he noticed Alex looking at him, he began to read aloud. 

Mulder read until his voice gave out, fed Alex a half-melted ice cube then headed back over to the truck stop. He made a stop at the office to make sure they were paid up and bribe the desk clerk _not_ to have their room cleaned. He had a cover story all prepared, that he was helping his _brother_ through the DTs. It wasn't needed; Alex had paid up through the weekend and taken care of the bribes, although the beer-bellied clerk gladly pocketed Mulder's twenty, also. 

Mulder returned to the room with chocolate for himself and an orange Popsicle for Alex. Krycek managed two bites of Popsicle and an ice cube before sinking back in to unconsciousness. Mulder spent the rest of the evening sitting naked next to his rapist staring at the television, trying not to think. Twice, Alex began the violent trembling that signaled chills. He never spoke or opened his eyes when Mulder stretched out next to him, just leaned into the agent's warmth and whimpered. 

Night passed. Dawn found Mulder still sitting and Alex just still. If it weren't for the shuddering veins, Mulder might have thought his nemesis dead. Then it occurred to him that Alex might, in fact, _be_ dead, with just the alien technology torturing his body and giving him the illusion of life. 

Mulder lunged off the bed, creeped out by the thought that he'd been sitting next to an animated corpse all night. Then panic set in. What would he do if Alex really had died? Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm himself, staring warily at the bed as if it had suddenly grown scorpions. He stared hard and thought he could see Krycek's chest rising and falling, but couldn't be sure it wasn't an optical illusion caused by the constant nanocyte movement. 

Fox Mulder wasn't a man who scared easily, but he was frightened now. He'd told Alex that he was out of his league; looking at the unmoving hoodlum, he felt like he was out of the game. It was time to bring in the first string. 

As much as he'd dreaded facing his partner, the decision to call Scully filled him with relief. Everything would be all right. Scully would see to it. 

He told Alex all this while he showered and put on clean clothes. He said he'd be careful, that he'd drive away to make his call, and he wouldn't call her direct. He'd watch for tails and take a different route back. 

Alex didn't reply, but Mulder felt he had to tell him anyway. 

"I know you don't think I'm coming back," Mulder said to the unconscious man, "but I am." He placed his badge on the nightstand next to Alex, directly in his line of sight. If he should open his eyes. 

Two and a half hours later, Mulder pulled into a rest stop off the interstate. 

"Turn off the recorder," he said into the pay phone. 

"Mulder!" came Ringo Langley's voice. Mulder closed his eyes, almost overwhelmed by a wave of affection. They'd missed him, he could tell, and he'd never even given them a thought. God! He was pond scum. 

"Turn it off, Langley." 

"Sure, Mulder. It's off. 

Mulder leaned his head against the phone and felt tears stinging behind his closed eyes. "Please, Ringo. It's important." There was silence, but he could hear voices. He recognized Frohike's rhythms, although he couldn't understand the words, and wondered where Byers was. 

"It's off," said Langley, subdued. "What do you need?" 

That hurt, and Mulder barely suppressed a sob. It was so true: He only called them when he wanted something. When _he_ needed something. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. 

"Mulder?" 

"I need you to... please... can you contact Scully for me?" 

"Well, sure, Mulder. But what's wrong? Isn't she speaking to you?" 

That forced a bark of laughter out of him. He felt so incredibly grateful. "No, it's... I'm just afraid to call. I don't know if anyone's looking for me, if her phone's being monitored. Go tell her... tell her I need her. To bring medical supplies—" 

"You're hurt?" 

"No. It's... tell her the Skin wasn't alone. That I'm watching a rat twitch. Tell her to be careful. That I may have a vaccine, not just a cure. Just tell her, okay?" He gave Langely the location of their motel and reiterated that Scully should be careful. "Tell her that nothing's worth her safety, okay? Please? Will you tell her?" 

"Sure, Mulder, I... hey!" Mulder heard a scuffle then Melvin Frohike's voice came on the line. 

"Mulder, are you okay?" 

The concern in the little man's voice tightened his chest and started the burning behind his eyes again. "No," he replied. "I'm not. I'm... tired. That's all. Just tired. Tell Scully, okay? Will you do that for me?" 

"We'll do it, Mulder. We'll keep her safe, too." 

Mulder smiled, tears making everything blurry. He was almost overwhelmed with emotion. "I know you will, Mel. Thank you." Frohike always tried to get people to call him 'Mel,' and no one ever did. It was the best gift Mulder knew to give him. 

He hung up, not waiting for a reply. He was undeserving, and so very grateful. He felt humbled. 

It didn't look as if Krycek had moved. 

"Honey, I'm home," Mulder said softly to the inert figure. "Help's on its way. I think." He sighed deeply, tired beyond endurance. He stripped off his clothes and collapsed onto the bed, wishing he could sleep. Food might be good, too. He lay there, trying to remember if he'd eaten that day, listening for the sound of Alex breathing. He couldn't hear much; as busy as the nanites were, they were eerily silent. 

He must've dozed at some point during the night, because suddenly it was dawn. He groaned, not at all rested. 

"I hate you," he told Krycek conversationally as he rose to dress. He'd barely gotten his pants zipped when a knock sounded. He grabbed his gun, heart pounding. The bad guys wouldn't knock, some rational part of his mind said. Didn't stop the panic adrenaline. 

"Mulder?" Came Scully's voice from the other side of the door. 

He closed his eyes and prayed to an unknown deity, reached over and unlocked the door. "It's open," he said, standing back with his gun held at ready. 

"Mulder?" Scully said again, tentatively sticking her head in. "Oh my God! Mulder!" 

"Jesus H. Christ!" said Walter Skinner, coming in behind her, Glock pointed at Mulder's chest. 

Mulder uncocked his gun. "Guess that means the mirror didn't lie," he said. "Good to see you upright, Sir." 

"Well, you've looked better. What the hell is going on?" Skinner glared. 

Scully reached up to cup Mulder's cheek. He leaned into it, loving her. 

"Fuck! It's true, then." Skinner had approached the bed and was looking down at Krycek and his pulsating veins. "How long?" 

"He's been unconscious for almost 24 hours." 

"No, how long's he had this shit?" 

Mulder hugged Scully to him, taking comfort. "I don't know. He was at my apartment when I got home, after I talked to Chongo at the hospital. He brought me here. At gunpoint. Then he injected himself." He shrugged. "There's more, but that's the gist." 

"Mulder, why didn't you call sooner?" 

He kissed the top of her head. "It was a gift. His pain, I mean. That's what he said. That it was a payback of sorts. And it was... so... intimate somehow." 

"Why you?" Skinner asked. He still stared down at Krycek, so angry he was trembling. Mulder knew he thought it should've been him that was offered this _gift_. 

"This was part of my 'devil's bargain,'" he said, letting Scully go. 

"I want to know," Skinner said, moving away to give Scully access. 

Mulder nodded. 

"He's dehydrated," Scully announced after a cursory examination. "Walter, bring the supplies in, please." 

Skinner obeyed. Mulder caught Scully's eye. _Walter?_ his raised eyebrows asked. She blushed then scowled at him. She wasn't going to be put on the defensive. 

The Assistant Director returned with Scully's black doctor bag and a cooler similar to the one housing Krycek's vaccine, only much larger. Scully smiled her thanks and he dimpled back at her. Mulder had never noticed that Skinner had dimples. 

"I need to hang this," she said, taking a plastic bag full of liquid and tubing out of the cooler. "It's glucose," she said to Mulder's unvoiced question. "Walter, can you...?" 

"Got it covered," he told her pulling a casually rolled length of thick wire out of a hip pocket. He threaded the wire through the hole at the top of the bag, twisted it closed and looped the other end over the wall sconce. 

"Why do you carry wire with you?" Mulder asked, sinking down into a chair. He hadn't prepared himself for Skinner, and was especially unprepared for an unSkinner-like Skinner. 

"There's almost nothing that can't be fixed with baling wire and duct tape." He looked meaningfully over the table at the roll of duct tape Krycek had brought. 

"And you have baling wire because...?" 

Skinner shrugged and Mulder noticed his was studiously keeping his back to Scully, who was securing a needle in Krycek's unmoving arm. "I grew up in ranch country," the big man said, seeming to focus a lot of attention on Mulder. "Baling wire was a staple." He shrugged. "Old habits die hard." 

A part of Mulder wanted to pursue this. Where would a person _buy_ baling wire in DC? Did somebody send it to him? Trivial questions that kept his mind away from the here and now, explanations and confessions that would eventually have to be made. 

"Mulder?" came Scully's voice from behind them. "When did you eat last?" 

"Huh?" he replied, sounding stupid, even to himself. 

"Did you eat anything yesterday?" she asked. 

He tried to think. There was the strawberry milkshake that Krycek couldn't drink. "I had a shake," he told her, although he couldn't remember exactly _when_. He'd lost all conception of time after he'd first curled his naked body around Krycek's, keeping him warm. 

She heaved a great theatrical sigh. "Walter? Take Mulder over to the cafe and see that he eats. And bring me back a sandwich." She'd straightened up from Krycek and turned to them. 

Mulder's heart lurched at the thought of leaving Alex alone with Scully. Not that he really thought that she'd _do_ anything to him. She took her oath seriously, he knew, but still... she had as much reason to wish him ill as anyone. 

Skinner seemed to feel the same way, although Mulder thought for different reasons. "I don't want you to have to be alone with... him," the AD said, still keeping his eyes away from the bed and Krycek. "He's dangerous." 

Mulder almost smiled to see those eyebrows rising skeptically for someone else. "I don't think that's a problem right now," she told him, her tone brooking no argument. "And, unlike the two of you, I've never had a problem keeping Alex Krycek under control." 

There didn't seem to be much to say to that. And while they all knew better than to underestimate Krycek, it seemed clear that this particular enemy at this moment in time was anything but dangerous. 

The muscles in the AD's jaw worked. He was obviously not pleased. "Get dressed, Mulder," he said, not looking away from Scully. "She's impossible when she's being bossy." 

Scully's answering grin was delighted. The obvious change in the relationship between his partner and his boss intrigued him. He hadn't thought either one of them had it in them to not only unbend enough to let someone else close but to flaunt rules and conventions as well. He heartily approved. 

Krycek lay unmoving. 

Mulder watched his Assistant Director read the menu. He'd thought he'd rather be tied down and infected with black oil than be alone with Skinner, but this wasn't too bad. Skinner was the uncomfortable one, making Mulder wonder just how far things had gone between him and Scully. 

"She sent us here because of me," Skinner said suddenly, not looking up from the menu. 

"You mean I really don't have to eat anything?" Mulder meant it to be humorous, but it came out slightly pitiful. 

Skinner looked up at him then and gave a small smile. "You don't think she'd kick both our butts?" 

Mulder shrugged in concession. "So, why aren't you eating?" 

Skinner's eyes shifted away again. "It's got nothing to do with my eating habits." He was buried in the menu again. "She knew how much seeing her put the IV into Krycek bothered me." He slapped the menu down on the table. "She was being kind." 

"Kind?" 

"I remember what it felt like. The glucose going through my veins." 

Mulder couldn't quite suppress a shudder. "It burned like acid, didn't it?" he asked, both fascinated and horrified. 

Skinner shook his head. "Not acid. More like old coffee. You know, coffee that's been on the burner for hours, that's gotten thick and mean. I was in all this pain anyway, and then there's this _stuff_ and I could feel it, like something alive. It was just... really... icky." 

"Icky?" 

"Icky. So, how're the burgers here?" 

"They smell great," Mulder told him. 

"Works for me," said the big man. So, that's what they ordered, grateful for 24-hour truck stops that serve everything all day long. They ate in companionable silence, neither one wanting to open up any further topics of conversation. 

Scully was at the table hunched over her laptop when they returned with her turkey sandwich and diet Coke. "There was a diskette in Krycek's cooler," she said, moving over to another chair, giving herself room to eat and them access to the screen. "It's pretty fucking amazing," she said around a mouthful of turkey. 

"Scully!" said Mulder, shockingly pleased at her profanity. 

"Have you seen this?" she gestured toward the laptop with her sandwich. 

He shook his head. "I just kept ice on the vaccine," he told her. 

She tsked. "So much for that famous Mulder curiosity. It never occurred to you to snoop?" 

What could he say? "I was distracted," he said. 

"Hmmm. Walter, are you okay?" Skinner had ignored the laptop and their by-play, standing over Krycek, staring down at him. 

"Why's he in a coma? I was never in a coma." 

"It's not a coma," she said. "I don't know what, or why, it is, but it's not a coma." 

As if in answer, Krycek began to moan. He thrashed back and forth, attempting to dislodge the IV. 

Scully abandoned her sandwich, making a beeline for the bed with Mulder right behind. 

"Hurts," Alex whispered, conscious once again. "Fox, it hurts. Can't stand it. Please, Fox." 

"We're going to have to restrain him," Scully said. "Walter, I put some straps in the trunk. Get them, please." 

The AD stood trembling, staring horrified at Scully. "Walter?" She said gently. 

"No!" cried Mulder. "No restraints." He knelt by the bed. "Alex, you have to be still. If we have to tie you down, it'll hurt even worse." 

"I can't stand it!" His voice rose to a shriek. "It's like the oil. Having the oil in me. Make it stop, Fox. Please, make it stop." 

Mulder put his hands on Krycek's shoulders, using just enough pressure to hold him. Alex keened at the touch. "Alex, listen to me. Listen!" Their eyes locked. "It's not the oil. It's just glucose, and you need it. You're dehydrated and your body was shutting down. It's not the oil!" 

"I can't... please." 

"Yes, you can. You know how. Stop fighting it, Alex. Stop fighting the pain. Just give up to it." He slowly took his hands away. "Give it up," he whispered. "You'll get through this, Alex. You promised me. You owe me." 

Krycek nodded, his eyes filling with tears. "Closure," he whispered. 

"And answers." Mulder waited for another nod. "He'll be quiet now, Scully. Finish your sandwich." He rose, walked over to the AD and took his arm. "It's okay, Sir. You need to sit down." 

Skinner looked shockey and wouldn't move. "You shouldn't have brought him here, Scully. It's too soon. This is too hard on him." 

"It was him or Frohike," she said coming to Skinner's other side. "Who'd you pick for back up?" Skinner moved for her, and let her guide him into a chair. "Oh, I forgot. You don't _do_ backup. You just cowboy off on your own without telling anybody." 

"I was kidnapped!" Mulder protested. 

"So I see," she scowled at him. 

Horrifyingly, Mulder felt tears burn behind his eyes. He'd been through so much and he was so tired. Something of his emotion must've gotten through to Scully. She stopped frowning at him and patted his arm. 

"Sit down and look at this," she told him, indicating the laptop, giving him time to get under control. He scrolled through the documents, nodding as he read. 

"Alex told me some of this," he said. "He said that in theory the vaccine wouldn't be horrible like the cure." 

"Did he tell you about the potential for good this stuff has? The nanotechnology, I mean. It's a possible cure for just about everything, from cancers to birth defects. It can grow organs!" 

"But at what cost? What good is a new kidney if someone has control of you?" 

They argued amicably, potential good vs. force for evil. Mulder didn't even notice when she climbed into Skinner's lap, making herself comfortable. The big man joined in the conversation now and then, but he was mostly quiet, transfixed on Krycek's shuddering veins. 

"Why's he doing that?" Skinner asked suddenly. "I never did that." Mulder looked over to the bed. Krycek was trembling. 

"He's cold," Mulder said, going cold himself. 

Scully squirmed off Skinner's lap to go fuss around Krycek. "Maybe we can rig the blanket somehow so it doesn't actually touch him but would still provide some warmth. Like a tent." She made tent-building gestures over Krycek. "Walter?" 

"No," said Mulder. He stood and peeled off his t-shirt. "It's okay. I know what to do." He avoided Scully's eyes and turned his back to Skinner while toeing off his shoes and socks. "He gets chills, but they'll pass. He just needs," Mulder was pushing his jeans and shorts down over his hips, "to be held. That's all." 

"Jesus Christ, Mulder!" This from Skinner. 

"Mulder, what...?" From his peripheral vision he could see Scully looking back and forth from him to Skinner. He blanked his mind—he'd gotten very good at that over the past few months—and didn't let himself think about her. Naked, he stretched out on the bed close to Krycek, opening his arms. Instinctively, the man every person in the room hated most leaned into Mulder's warmth, keening softly at the touch. 

"It's okay, Scully," he said closing his eyes. "I've done this before. The chills pass in a few hours. It's okay. Okay?" He didn't hear her reply, overwhelmed by his closeness to Krycek, the humiliation of having Scully witness this horror, and the feel of the dancing nanites against his skin. 

Mulder didn't know how long he lay naked holding his greatest enemy. He didn't know how long the woman he loved had stayed and watched or when she left with her new paramour. He couldn't fathom the future; had no idea what would happen next. The present was a never-ending cycle of pain, humiliation and hopelessness. 

He endured the dancing nanites for as long as he could before their horror became too much to bear. He rolled away from Krycek and bolted for the bathroom, puking up the cheeseburger he'd eaten with Skinner a few hours before. 

The apparition that stared at him from the bathroom mirror was all nose and dark, sunken eyes. A hollow man, soulless and lost. He glanced from the mirror to the bed, where Alex still trembled slightly, wondering where his hate had gone. Where any emotion hid. 

"Fox?" Alex whispered. "You okay?" 

No. He'd never be okay again. "Yes," he said. He drank a handful of water then walked back to the bed, placing himself carefully around Alex's naked body. 

"So, when did Scully start spreadin' 'em for the boss?" 

"Don't be crude," he admonished. Alex was silent so long that Mulder assumed he was out again. 

"You don't know," came a statement, startling Mulder. He could almost _feel_ the smirk. 

"You must be feeling better." 

"Better? I can't remember," Alex replied, "what it feels like not to hurt." Mulder stayed silent. "Think she finally gave him that bath he asked for?" 

"What part of 'don't be crude' do you not understand?" 

Alex ignored him. "You okay with it?" 

" _Yes_ , I'm okay. I'm okay with everything. Okay?" Aware of how defensive he sounded, Mulder shifted slightly, pulling Alex gently closer. "I... approve. I think." 

"OPC won't." 

"Yeah, well, they're used to that." It suddenly hit him what they were discussing. "Don't talk about her, Alex. I mean it," he added when Krycek snorted. 

"St. Scully the Unapproachable. She never gave you a tumble." 

Schoolboy denial bubbled up, wanting out. Locker room braggadocio warred with innate decency and honest feeling. He did tend to think of Scully as inviolate. A part of him felt that if she was going to give it up, she ought to give it up to him, which contrasted with the fact that he'd never really wanted Scully _that_ way. The way most of their coworkers assumed. But he didn't want people to know they hadn't. Didn't. Weren't. Especially not now. Not after Krycek. 

He started to roll away, disgusted with himself and this situation. Krycek stopped him with a little sound of protest. "I'm sorry," came a small voice. "Please, Fox. I'm still cold... I'll be good." 

That made Mulder snort, but he curled back around Alex. "Just don't talk about Scully. I don't want to hear her name come out of your mouth." 

Alex didn't reply. 

Mulder was sitting up reading, back against the headboard, when Scully tentatively knocked on his door. "It's open," he said, dropping the book and picking up his gun. 

"Mulder, we've brought you some dinner—" Scully, with Skinner right behind like a large wolfhound, stuck her head in the room. She stopped abruptly, staring at his hand, the one not holding the gun. Of course, it must look as if he were holding Krycek's hand. 

"The nanno activity is almost gone, I think," he said by way of explanation. "Skinner was wired to monitors when his heart stopped. Alex has me." He gestured with Alex's wrist, holding it up as illustration. "His pulse seems steady." 

Scully took a tentative step inside. "Come eat, Mulder. I'll watch Krycek." He stared at her and saw nothing but concern. No judgment, no censure. Skinner stood behind her, holding a brown bag. Mulder's dinner? He was looking from Scully to Mulder and back again. From him Mulder sensed leashed energy. He wondered how the big man would act if Scully weren't there. He didn't want to find out. 

He rose to check out his dinner, nodding his thanks to Skinner. Scully's touch was evident in the whole-grain bread, salad and shiny red apple; Skinner's in the double slabs of ham and cheese, the spicy brown mustard and huge chocolate chip cookie. 

Mulder took a bite of the sandwich, wondering if he'd just puke it up later. Didn't matter, he decided. It tasted great _now_. He took it back to the bed, sitting cross-legged next to Alex, and spread the food out on the blanket like a picnic. 

He ate slowly, delaying the inevitable explanation and watching Scully watch Krycek. She'd pulled a chair over to the bed and settled in with one eye on Krycek and the other on her laptop. 

Skinner just sat at the table and looked tense. 

So went the evening. Scully logged onto her computer and sent copies of Krycek's documentation to Mulder's Gunmen, who'd do god knows what with it. Mulder stayed close to Krycek, whether as a guard or a protector, he couldn't say. 

"Why am I still alive, Fox?" Krycek suddenly asked, making them all jump. Mulder swung his legs over the side of the bed to sit up, not wanting to be so close to his enemy now that the man was conscious. With Skinner and Scully there. 

"The 'cure' isn't necessarily fatal. Besides, you're young and healthy," Mulder replied. 

Alex rolled to his back, arching in an unkinking movement. "You know what I mean," he husked, then cleared his throat. "Why am I alive? Why didn't you kill me?" Mulder turned and looked at him, wondering how to answer. "I'd have killed you." 

"No," Mulder replied, "you wouldn't." 

His partner abandoned her laptop and gently picked up Krycek's wrist, feeling his pulse. He didn't flinch or turn away from Mulder. "You're wrong," he whispered. 

"This part of it's over." Scully tipped her chin at Skinner who grabbed her medical bag and brought it over to the bed. She dug out her stethoscope, listened, then fished out the blood pressure cuff. "It's a little high," she proclaimed, "but that's to be expected. If you're like Walter, the muscle cramps will start in a couple of hours. I'd like to head them off." She filled a syringe, looking from Krycek to Mulder and back, asking permission. Mulder nodded at Krycek, who nodded to her. "And I think we can get rid of this." She carefully pulled the glucose IV out of his arm after injecting him with the muscle relaxant. 

Krycek turned his attention to Scully for the first time. "Why am I alive?" he asked her. 

She swabbed his arm with alcohol and replied, "Because he's never had good sense," making a wry mouth and tipping her chin at Mulder. 

"You want to die, boy?" Skinner had risen and approached the bed, all coiled danger and pissed-off righteousness, a dark genie more than willing to grant that particular wish. "How long were you like this? How long!" He towered over the bed, clenching his fists. 

"Walter," said Scully softly, gathering in the leash. 

Mulder admired her control. A part of him thought he should feel alarmed; the big man _always_ intimidated him. Another part of him— the bigger part—wanted answers, and if someone else were to ask the questions, so much the better. 

"How long?" Skinner yelled. The muscle in his jaw jumped. 

Alex slowly turned his head to look up at the AD. They stared at each other so long that Mulder started to squirm, uncomfortable under Skinner's scrutiny, even though it wasn't directed at him. He bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to speak. Only those two knew just what the other had been through. 

"How long?" The AD whispered, making Mulder shiver. 

"I was the first... I think... they let live." 

Skinner frowned and started to speak, but Alex interrupted. 

"I gotta pee." This was directed at Mulder. 

"You haven't gone for three days," said Skinner, obviously speaking from experience. "You can hold it a little longer." 

"I know I owe you both a few humiliating moments, but do you really want me to piss the floor in front of Scully? I seem to be rehydrated." 

Krycek was back, Mulder thought with a pang, sarcastic smirk and all. He rolled off the bed with a groan, and walked around to the other side. "Come on," he said, holding out his hand. 

Alex looked up at him, inscrutable. He put his right hand into Mulder's, allowing himself to be pulled up. 

"You could help a little," Mulder groused, straining to pull him up. Alex's left arm hung by his side, seemingly useless. "What the hell's wrong with your arm?" 

Alex favored him with a pitying look, the kind reserved for idiot relatives who embarrass themselves in public. It pissed Mulder off, until suddenly he pulled it together. "Oh, God, Alex. Your arm!" 

"Just get me to the bathroom, Mulder." 

"What the hell's wrong with his arm?" Skinner, still belligerent. 

Mulder didn't know how to explain, so Krycek did it for him. "Some Russian peasants cut it off. Alien nanotechnology grew it back." He glared in Skinner's direction for a long beat before pulling out of Mulder's grasp, taking two steps toward the bathroom and pitching face forward. Mulder and Scully both lunged for him, one on either side, stopping his forward motion. 

"Walter!" Scully admonished when Skinner made no move to catch him. 

The AD snarled, finally moving to replace her at Krycek's side. "Get him to the bathroom," she told them in a no-nonsense voice. " _Then_ you can interrogate him." 

Mulder couldn't think of any more uncomfortable scenario than standing with his boss holding a naked Krycek upright in front of a cheap motel toilet. 

"I can still hold my own dick," said the assassin, shrugging off Mulder's attempts to help. "It was a small price to pay, Fox," he said, relenting to address Mulder's concern. "Ask him," he indicated Skinner who stood uncomfortably beside him, strong arm encircling his waist, holding him up. "Tell him, Skinner. Would you have given your left arm to be rid of my control?" 

Skinner was silent for the time it took Krycek's stream to taper off. "Yeah," he said while Alex shook off the drops. "I guess I wouldv'e." 

"What, what happens to it now?" Mulder asked, sickened. 

A shrug. "It'll atrophy to nothing. Just shrivel up and drop off." 

"Jesus," breathed Skinner. 

"I... I...," Mulder abandoned Alex to Skinner's support while he dove for the toilet, topping Krycek's urine with Scully's ham and cheese sandwich. 

"It's no wonder you're so skinny," Alex groused as Skinner led him back to the bed. "Nothing ever stays down." 

Mulder couldn't bother to reply, busy as he was retching. 

Alex was pulling on sweats when Mulder came out of the bathroom, suffering Skinner's aid with little grace. 

"Are you saying Mulder isn't keeping food down? Since when?" Scully asked, hovering. She pulled pillows up behind him, shouldering Skinner out of the way. It was a subtle way to get the AD away from Krycek, away from the temptation to do violence. 

Krycek squirmed stiffly, trying to get comfortable. "Let's see," he began in a matter-of-fact voice, "he started vomiting right before I raped him the first time." 

Mulder closed his eyes at Scully's gasp, wishing for a moment that Skinner would go into a rage and kill them all. 

"Oh, Mulder. I'm so sorry. I should have seen." 

He opened his eyes to see her clinging to their boss, keeping him from Krycek as much as taking comfort from him. 

"Why?" Mulder whispered at Krycek. 

"I told you 'why'," Krycek replied, awkwardly trying to adjust the pillows at his back. 

"You promised me!" 

Alex was quiet for so long, Mulder thought the thug had passed out again. He thought he'd die from Scully's pity. 

"Plan A was to kill everybody around you," the monster finally said. "These two, the three geeks, everybody." 

Mulder's knees gave out, and he sat down hard on the corner of the bed. 

"I _suggested_ that they use the nanos on Tiny here, before doing anything so permanent. See how much he could slow you down, you know? It bought some time." 

"Time for what?" Mulder had never heard Skinner's voice sound so quiet and thought surely someone would die here. 

Krycek gave a half shrug. "Time for things to change, alliances to shift. Something. Anything." His eyes went to half-mast as the muscle relaxant kicked in. He closed one eye, as if trying to focus on Skinner. "It became apparent there were things you wouldn't do, not even to save your own life." He chuckled feebly. To Mulder, it sounded like a death rattle. "Plan A was about to be reintroduced." 

"They started with my mother, didn't they?" Mulder twisted around towards Krycek, fists clenched, heart breaking. 

Krycek shrugged. "Could be. If they did, I didn't hear about it." He threw his head back and stared at the ceiling. "I knew what that would do to you. To lose everyone and have it be your fault. So I gave them Plan B." 

Scully made another small sound. 

"It amused them, I think. The thought of you enduring a 'fate worse than death' at _my_ hands, all to save the big guy here from a rather grisly and drawn-out end." 

"Son of a bitch!" Skinner roared, putting Scully aside and stepping toward the bed, toward Krycek. "What do you mean, you sorry-assed sonuvabitch? 

"Oh, god," said Mulder, hugging himself. 

"You don't remember?" Even half asleep, Krycek smirked, unafraid, still courting death. "Sure you do." His voice was a whisper. "You remember, lying on the bathroom floor, dying. Then there's Mulder, cursing me and making bargains. And suddenly you weren't dying anymore. You remember, Skinner. You know you do." 

"Fucker!" Skinner lunged and Mulder found himself up off the bed, standing between them, running interference as Skinner grabbed at Krycek. 

"No!" he shouted. 

"No?" Skinner's anger made him tremble. "You're telling _me_ no? That's a new word for you, isn't it?" 

Mulder flinched as if struck. "You don't under..." he began, and then his anger flared. "You bastard! I saved your life, you ungrateful son of a bitch! You don't know... you don't... you can't imagine what I've done, what he made me do. For _you_! I did it to save _you_!" 

"You did it for me." Skinner's voice dripped venom. "But you're protecting _him_ now. That's not what I call rape." 

"Walter!" Scully's angry voice froze them. 

"He had no right! No right to do _that_ ," the AD turned to her, reading something in her face that sent him flying out of the motel room with a cry of despairing rage. He left a vast silence that Mulder eventually broke. 

"Did you have to say that?" he asked. 

"Why should you be the only one to suffer?" came the barely audible reply. 

"A good question, Krycek." Scully's voice was colder than her icy blue eyes. "Why don't you answer that." 

To Mulder's chagrin, Krycek seemed to be more able to give her the answers he wanted. His nightmare stopped staring at the ceiling and began speaking to his partner. "I wanted him. Always have. Been obsessed, you know? Don't understand why. He's a pain in the ass, and he's never been nice. But I... wanted him." His head nodded down toward his chest and Mulder was afraid that he was out for the count. 

"Dammit, Alex! Don't you fade out on me yet!" Mulder was furious. He couldn't stand hearing this. He had to hear this. _Something_ had to make things better, to give him his life back. "I want to know why!" He was shouting, sounding hysterical even to his own ears. 

Alex's head jerked up and his eyes opened, looking toward Mulder. He narrowed them, as if trying to focus. "Why?" he rasped. "I don't know _why_ , Mulder. You think I _like_ this? Christ! I've _prayed_ to get you out of my head. And _this_ , I thought maybe _this_ would do it. I'd get a taste and see that you weren't all that, and then it would go away. But it didn't happen that way. It was good. Even with you hating me, it was good." He turned his head. 

"I wanted it to be real then," he told Scully. "And I knew that could never happen. But I wanted it so. God! I was pissed off! I beat him, you know?" He took on a conspiratorial tone, sounding almost drunk. "I can manipulate _anything_! Except that. Nothing I did would make it real. Then it got worse. One of them had this idea of turning him out, making him hook, and than 'catching' him at it." 

Scully sucked in air, making Mulder cringe. 

"I couldn't do it. I tried." He turned back toward Mulder. "They still pulled my strings, so I tried. I'da killed him, Fox. That biker who touched you. I'da killed him." His eyes shut, but he continued speaking. "So I stole the vaccine." He took a huge breath, as if gathering strength. "I couldn't put 'em all down, but I did enough, I think. To stop the hits. To stop them from killing everyone." His eyes opened slightly. "I did it for you, Fox. I did it for you." 

"That's not good enough!" Mulder clenched his fists, wanting to hit something. This was truly the most horrifying moment yet. More deaths on his head. 

"What do you want, Fox? There's nothing else I can tell you." 

"I want it to be over! I want my life back, to be like it was before." 

Krycek turned over on his side, so that he was in the same position he'd been in for the past three days. 

"Not possible. That Fox is dead. I killed him just as dead as if I'd put a bullet in your head." 

"No!" Mulder whispered. "No." He found himself on his knees by the bed, gripping the bedspread. "Fuck you, Krycek!" he raged. He wished Skinner were back in the room, so he'd have something to hit. 

"Bury him, Fox." Krycek's voice was nearly inaudible, causing Mulder to lean in close. "Put him to rest." 

"I hate you," Mulder said in measured tones. It was the only emotion he could articulate. 

"Yeah, I know." Alex gave a small smile and reached out to touch his face. His eyes closed; this time he was truly out, and no amount of Mulderesque outrage would rouse him. 

"Mulder. Come on, Mulder. Let him rest now." Scully took his arm and urged him upward, tugging him away from the bed. He let her guide him into a chair and obediently sipped from the bottle of water she uncapped and put in front of him. "Krycek's not the only one who's gotten dehydrated." 

Mulder hated her scrutiny, but there were compensations. He enjoyed her presence and appreciated the fact that she hadn't immediately run out after Skinner. He knew that she watched him drink the water, and he found it oddly comforting, in a self-conscious kind of way. When he finally looked at her, she reached across the table and took his hand. "I'm sorry you couldn't talk to me about this, Mulder." 

He tightened his hand on hers. "At first, I would've died, let Skinner die, rather than have you know. Then, when it became apparent that you knew _something_ , I wanted to tell you, but I didn't know how." 

"I thought you were in another abusive relationship, like what happened to you at Oxford with Phoebe. I was worried, but Mulder, I had no idea. I'm so sorry." 

"It _was_ an abusive relationship. Of sorts." 

"That wasn't a relationship, Mulder. You were raped!" 

"Was I?" He pulled his hand away and ran it through his hair. "Maybe Skinner's right." 

"No!" Scully practically shouted at him. She glanced over at the unmoving Krycek. "No," she said again, softer. "He didn't mean it, you know. He's just... upset. He admires you a lot." 

Mulder grabbed onto the change of subject. "So, tell me about our AD, Scully." He waggled his eyebrows and gave what he hoped was a lascivious grin. 

His partner grinned back, blushing furiously. "When he came off the drugs, he still remembered his behavior, wanting me to give him a sponge bath and all, and he was _so_ embarrassed. He wouldn't stop apologizing, so finally, just to shut him up, I kissed him." 

"You kissed him?" 

"Uh huh." 

"And?" 

"And it worked. He shut up. Then he kissed me back." She shrugged. "It's been... good. And it's wonderful not to have to do it alone." 

"It?" 

"Yeah, Mulder. 'It.' Worrying about you." She raised an eyebrow. 

"Oh." There didn't seem to be much to say to that. He searched for words, surprising both of them with, "Have you always wanted him?" Mulder asking Scully about her sex life was uncharacteristic, a symptom of the change Krycek had wrought. He waited for her answer, not breathing, afraid she'd counter with questions of her own. 

She didn't. Instead, she shook her head, smiled, blushed deeper and shrugged. "When he was shot, it hit me how much I'd miss him." Her head cocked, expression softening. "That's when it started. It was... more an awareness than attraction, I think. But I began to realize that what he did for us, what he let us do, wasn't just his job. It wasn't just that that he believed in the work... believes... It was a way for him to reach out. He doesn't do that easily." 

"Well, if anyone can change that..." he broke off, embarrassed. She'd gotten to him, too, in that long ago time when he still saw things in black and white. 

Her expression turned stark. "Mulder, I thought I'd lost him. This time, I really thought..." Her eyes widened, looking inward. "I'd never told him, you know. Hell, I'd never even told myself. I'd doubted him and mistrusted him and I thought he was dying and I, oh Mulder, I made a deal with God that if he lived I'd tell him, so when he got so silly on the drugs and then was so embarrassed about it I just had to. I had to kiss him. So I did. And he kissed me back." She squeezed his hand. "Life is short, Mulder." 

He returned her squeeze. "Yes, it is," he agreed. 

"He loves me, you know. He loves you, too," she added. "That's why this hit him so hard, why he reacted so badly." 

"Yeah, I know. It's a 'guy-thing'. We want to be the savers, not the saved." He chuckled dryly. "Want. That's what this is all about, isn't it?" 

She looked over at the bed, at Mulder's sleeping demon. "Rape isn't about want, Mulder. It's about power." 

He nodded, knowing she was right. Not believing it. 

Scully stood. "I have to go find him. He'll be beating himself up by now. There are plenty of rooms here, Mulder. Sleep somewhere else tonight." 

He shook his head. "Not yet. I need to be sure he's okay." 

"Then what, Mulder?" 

He shook his head. "Not a clue." 

"You can press charges." 

He rolled his eyes at her and she gave him a small smile. He knew she understood. Being Spooky Mulder was bad enough. Add to that the stigma of rape... Scully kissed him on the forehead and left. He sighed, glad to be alone again even as he missed her. 

He rose, stretched and switched on the television. He'd been in this motel room for years, it seemed. 

He didn't know that he'd slept until he was awakened by loud voices. 

"He had no right!" he heard his boss say through the thin wall of their cheap motel. "I never asked him for his help. I never would have allowed it." Skinner was on a rant. "How dare he make life and death decisions for me! How dare he let that... that... _thug_ touch him like that. What? Did they have something going on when they were partners? They're awfully cozy in there—" 

The sound of flesh impacting with flesh made Mulder jump. Skinner's words had numbed him, emptying him of everything but despair. Scully's slap—because there was nothing else it could've been— brought him back to himself 

"How dare _you_!" His partner's angry voice came through the wall clearly. "Mulder did what he did to save your life! He let himself be tortured so you wouldn't be! And _no_ —" she interrupted an angry retort from Skinner— "you didn't _ask_ for his help, Walter. You didn't have to. Mulder made his own choices and _you_ have no right to dis him for them!" 

The rumble of Skinner's voice came through, but the words were indistinct. Mulder imagined he was trying to unruffle Scully's feathers. 

"Did I really hear the word 'dis' come out of Scully's mouth?" The words were spoken so softly that Mulder wasn't sure he'd really heard them. 

He twisted around on the bed to look at his nightmare. "How long have you been awake?" 

"Long enough." Alex struggled to sit up. "God, I'm wiped. How long does this last?" 

"Skinner came out of it pretty quickly. But he didn't have an alien- grown arm to contend with. Give it time." 

"Then what?" 

People kept asking him that. "How the hell should I know?" Mulder replied, petulantly. "I want my life back." 

Alex snorted. 

The voices next door rose. "Skinner, you son of a bitch! You have no idea what he's gone through! What he's going through." 

"And you'd stand up for him no matter what, isn't that true? Or follow him into hell after some misbegotten _truth_ of his. Dammit, Dana! Someday he'll get into something you can't fix, then what'll you do? Are you going to die for him?" 

"I believe in what he's doing, Walter, and I thought you did, too." 

"There was a time I believed in the tooth fairy, too, Dana." 

The voices lowered, becoming inaudible. Mulder felt ineffably sad. Their relationship was too new to withstand this sort of strain. And it was his fault. 

"This is why it's used as a weapon," Krycek said. Mulder glared at him. He didn't like having his mind read. "World wide," said the assassin, "rape is used to demoralize the opposition. It's like biological warfare. Making people sick uses more resources than just killing them. Rape works the same way. It touches everyone who cares about the victim. And everyone who cares about _them_." 

"That why you did it?" 

Krycek squirmed to a sitting position. "I told you why I did it." 

"That's right. You were protecting us." Mulder's always-banked anger flared slightly, making him drip sarcasm. 

"Fuck you," said Krycek tiredly. "You don't believe me. You'll never believe me. That's okay. I can accept that. But don't expect me to apologize for saving _your_ friends, for saving _you_. I'll be damned," his voice rose, "before I apologize for enjoying it. Or making _you_ enjoy it." 

"You'll be damned anyway." 

Alex winced at the words, and Mulder's anger faded, leaving him with the familiar feeling of despair. "I'm going for a run," he announced standing, needing to get out of the room, to get away from Krycek's eyes. 

He changed in the bathroom, self-conscious and feeling silly about it. He'd been naked in front of Krycek for months, but Skinner's words made him strangely shy. It was true: He'd gotten comfortable— cozy even—around Alex Krycek. 

He left without comment, aware of Alex watching him. 

It felt good to run, to feel his muscles warm and loosen. Ragged breathing told him that it had been far too long. He hadn't run since the rape began. He'd let it change him, and that's why Skinner's words had hit him so hard. It wasn't the violation of his body so much as what he'd let it do to him. Running freed him, let him think thoughts that weren't allowed otherwise. 

Krycek made him feel pleasure, made him look forward to his violation, filled something in him that was so empty, he didn't dare look at it closely. It made him acknowledge the lack in his life. 

Even if it was a lie, no one had ever wanted Mulder the way Krycek said he wanted him. It was heady. He had to admit a part of him was flattered that someone thought he was that important, that desirable. 

Rape was about power, Scully had said, and he knew that was true. He remembered Krycek accusing him of having it all, and he suddenly had the makings of a profile. It was just a glimmer of insight, but it was more than he'd ever had before into the labyrinthine mind of Alex Krycek. The son of a bitch really did care for him and believed what he had told them about his actions and motives. Whether or not what he told them was true was something else, but Alex believed it, Mulder was sure. 

What Mulder felt for Krycek was something for another day. 

Running helped him look at things clearly, but it didn't help tell him what he should do next. That was still a black hole of doubt. 

He ran himself out, returning to the motel at a slow jog. Scully and Skinner were just walking out of their room when he reached his door. 

"Mulder!" Scully said brightly while Skinner scowled. "We're going hunting for a _real_ restaurant. Come with us." 

He panicked and said inanely, "Why don't I meet you?" 

She raised an eyebrow at him. "We don't know where we're going to end up, Mulder. We'll wait." 

His out-of-shape run had stolen all the blood from his brain, and he couldn't conjure any excuses. 

"Bring Alex," she added before that excuse occurred to him. Skinner's scowl deepened. 

"Give me ten," he said sighing. 

Inside the room, Alex slept. Mulder shook his shoulder but got only a muffled "mumph" in response. Relieved, he took a quick shower then pulled on almost-clean jeans and a fresh t-shirt. 

This time Krycek's shoulder got a more vigorous shake until Mulder's troubling patient opened his eyes. His "mumph" was interrogatory. 

"We're going someplace different to eat. I'll bring you back something." 

Alex blinked. "N'sqaw," he said before turning over and burrowing his face into the pillow. 

Mulder shook him again. "What?" 

"No squash," Alex said, turning his face up from the pillow for a moment. "Hate squash." 

What would make him think of squash, Mulder wondered. He stared for a minute, wondering who the hell this Alex Krycek was, bracing himself to face Scully and Skinner. 

The ride was silent. They found a rib joint a few miles off the interstate. Scully ate like a longshoreman while Mulder and Skinner watched each other play with their Cole slaw. She chattered, the men answering direct questions but neither offering anything unsolicited. Later, Mulder would find the office gossip that she was privy to almost as fascinating as the fact that she was able to talk nonstop for more than an hour. The Dana Scully he knew and loved _never_ chattered. 

She ran down eventually. In the ensuing silence, Skinner asked, "What are you going to do with him?" 

Mulder didn't know how to answer, so he didn't try. 

"I don't suppose there are any warrants out on him," Scully asked, pouring a mug of dark, foamy beer from a pitcher on the table. She topped the men's mugs, busily not looking at either of them. 

"None," growled Skinner. 

"I won't file charges," Mulder said quietly, twisting corn kernels off a cob, making a little mountain of loose corn. "I can't. There's too much involved..." He looked at Skinner for the first time since they sat down to eat. 

The big man nodded reluctantly, clearly not pleased. "Still protecting me," he said. 

"Protecting us all," Scully said mildly. 

Mulder shook his head and lowered his eyes, dividing his hill of corn into quarters. "I'm not... it's just... that... I'm not that strong." He forced himself to look up, hating himself for the tremor he felt in his hands and the tears that burned his eyes. "Please. Don't... don't hate me, sir." 

Skinner's explosive _whoof_ of air made him wince. "Jesus, Mulder," the AD began, his voice thick. "I don't hate you. God! I couldn't! You... I... Fuck, man." He gestured with a barely chewed rib, groping for words. "I don't hate you," he whispered. 

"So, what do we do about Krycek?" Scully asked, waving for the check. 

"I should've killed him when he wanted me to," Mulder said. He felt sad, awash with grief and empty. He mourned himself, he thought, the self Alex had murdered. Or maybe he mourned Alex, an Alex that could've been. 

"Not your style," said Skinner, who nodded to the waiter bringing the check. 

"He's right, Mulder. Think of the paperwork," supplied Scully, slapping a credit card on the bill before Skinner could get his wallet out. She raised an exaggerated eyebrow at her lover's frown. She grinned at Mulder. 

He managed a wan smile back, appreciating her effort at lightening the mood. 

They were quiet in the car, each busy with their own thoughts. 

"So, about Krycek," Scully began as they got close to the motel. "The way I see it, we have a few choices. We can kill him and dispose of the body on the way back to DC. Well, we could." 

Mulder had to smile at the look Skinner shot her way. He was sitting alone in the back seat and had a good look at both of them. 

"We could take him into custody," she continued, "and hope that the Consortium takes him out within the 48 hours we can legally hold him. Or," she raised her voice, stopping Mulder's protest before he could get it out, "or we can simply let him go, hoping he's the good guy he seems to think he is." 

"I don't think we're going to have to make any decisions about Alex," Mulder said as they turned into the motel. "The car's gone. The car we came in." 

Skinner threw gravel as he braked, and they all piled out, running for Mulder's room. It was indeed empty. 

"He could barely walk," Mulder said, looking at the empty bed. 

"Maybe he was carried out," Skinner supplied. Mulder's heart lurched. 

"I don't think so." Scully picked up a piece of motel stationery from the table and handed it to Mulder. 

I didn't lie 

He gave it to Skinner before sitting heavily down on the rumpled bed. He barely felt Scully stroking his head. "Let's go home," she said quietly. 

Mulder didn't remember much of the ride home. He sat in the back and stared at the highway sliding past the windows. Skinner insisted on driving despite Scully's admonishments about "over doing it." She sat with her back to the door, able to look at both her partner and her lover, her worry about both of them obvious. 

About 40 miles out of DC, Mulder sent them on a tangent to retrieve his car. He promised to call her cell when he got to his apartment, but she insisted on them following him home. He became afraid that she'd never leave him, that he'd never be alone again. He was afraid he'd never be able to be alone again. 

That didn't happen, of course. 

Scully saw him settled with a side trip for groceries and eventually ran out of reasons to hover. He watched them from his window and had to smile at her bullying, getting the big man into the passenger's side, bent on driving. This will be interesting, he thought, feeling suddenly empty, as if he were losing her, too. 

He insisted on returning to work, and she insisted he get counseling. _That_ lasted about six weeks, when his psychologist ended the sessions in disgust. 

"Attend this group," the doctor said, writing down time and place, "you can't bullshit them." 

Mulder went, but he couldn't relate. How could he talk about Alex to the young man who'd been gang raped as part of a fraternity initiation? Or the trucker who'd stopped at a bar for a drink and woke up in an alley naked and bleeding. Or the computer programmer whose Alzheimer-stricken father had consistently molested him for the first 12 years of his life. 

"You know, there's no right or wrong way," said Stan, the former college student, on their way out of the meeting on the third week of Mulder's silent attendance. 

"I beg your pardon?" Mulder never talked at these meetings, other than the obligatory "My name is Fox, and I was raped." 

"No one's been more raped than anybody else," Stan replied, touching the back of his hand. "It's not a contest." 

Mulder wasn't used to people getting into his head, so Stan's voicing of his thoughts startled a sob out of him. And once started, the tears wouldn't stop. Almost six months of bottled up pain and rage poured out. He was hustled back into the meeting room and surrounded by empathetic strangers. None of them were huggers, but they all managed to touch him—hand, shoulder, back. 

Outside of Scully, Mulder hadn't been touched since Alex. Their caring made him cry even harder, huge racking sobs that left him drained and sore. Stan took him home when he eventually ran down, tucked him into bed and stroked his head until he slept. 

His healing had begun. 

Alex was right, the _old_ Mulder had died. The new one worked a little harder at connecting with people, was a little less antagonistic and self-centered. He was also slightly less self- assured, questioning his own insights, not quite as effective as before. To most people, nothing had changed. Spooky Mulder was still an irritating, brilliant pain in the ass. 

Scully noticed that he touched more. The Gunmen worried when he started remembering their birthdays. He and Skinner eventually resumed an uneasy relationship, but Mulder didn't think that they'd ever be comfortable with each other. That was sad, he thought, but maybe the distance was what Skinner and Scully needed. Him out of their lives. He was very lonely. 

He missed Alex. He could admit that now. No one else knew what he'd been through, could understand how he'd felt. Something would happen and he'd think, "Alex would know. Alex would understand." 

Almost six months after Alex Krycek kidnapped Mulder and injected himself with a nano-cure, Mulder found a rose lying on his neat, always-made bed. His apartment showed no evidence of break in and a quick search showed no other Alex sign. 

He didn't know what it meant, only what it made him feel. He lay in the dark, smelling the rose, and wondered at a world that had no place in it for wounded souls like them. 

END...

* * *

Author: moco   
Date: November 2000   
Rating: NC17 for dark topics and m/m sex   
Pairing: K/M   
Spoilers: All of them, just to be sure.   
Summary: Krycek finds a way to take what he wants.   
Disclaimers: Characters aren't mine. They make me no money, and I returned them mostly undamaged. Hugs, kisses and chocolate ratboys to quercus, the World's Best Beta.   
WARNING: I think the title says it all. Although there is minimal blood and guts, this isn't a happy story.   
Feedback treasured... [email removed]   
Author's Note: This started life as a dark little pwp. It grew.   
---


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